


Hero No More

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Violence, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, F/F, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Draco Malfoy, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Rape Aftermath, Redeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23815999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Post-war fic!Draco Malfoy has a secret. As always. A bitter, not-quite-as-confident-as-he-seems Harry Potter is determined to discover it. Luckily, he's a reporter now, and so has all the access...only it's not quite what he thinks it is. And when he finds out, he has no idea what to do.It's been so long since he's been a hero.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ginny Weasley, Marcus Flint/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 29
Kudos: 189





	1. The Match

The wind whooshing, whooping people in the stands—god, Harry had missed this. Sure, he was in the glass box with the Minister—as close as he’d ever get to being “part of the crowd”—and not on the pitch, but this was the first match he’d been to since Hogwarts regardless. It was odd, really, now that he thought about it; The Prophet had never asked him to cover a Quidditch match before. Of course, with this one, there were extenuating circumstances. 

“Good players,” Corner said, leaning over to Harry to hand him a Butterbeer.

“Fast as hell,” Harry replied. It was a little embarrassing, actually; he’d considered re-entering the Quidditch fields, so to speak, as of late. But watching these players…even on the old Firebolt, they’d be faster than anything he’d ever seen, anything he’d ever done. Blue and gold whizzed by the box, and he gasped. 

Nothing like a good Quidditch match. 

“I’m partial to the Tornadoes, myself—can’t get over when they were winning fifth year. Best part of that year—besides that old, damn, what was it called? The D.A. That was good too. Until Umbitch busted it, that is.”

“Wish she was still rotting,” Harry muttered.

“Well, yeah, man, we all do, but she’s not, is the thing. And no amount of burying yourself in cheesy chips is going to get you over it. Maybe moving on with your life.” 

“Harsh words,” Harry laughed. The cheesy chips comment was, perhaps, a bit harsh—he’d put on a bit of weight since his school years, but Harry thought it made him look dignified. Done with the scrappiness of fighting a war. He was a writer now.   
“No harsher than your scathing critiques of her daily pink outfits. You sure do know how to hold a grudge like a motherfucker,” Corner grinned. 

Harry could do nothing but murmur assent and watch the match. It’d been going on for a good while, now—the seekers were at a standstill, circling over top of the arena, circling.

And one took a dive. Everyone started screaming, the blue and yellow alike lept to their feet, Harry’s cheesy chips got knocked all over the ground—and then the seeker spun up into the air, golden snitch clutched in his triumphant fist. 

The next few minutes, it was all Harry could do not to cast muffliato to get away from the noise. Quidditch had grown—the ministry department for it alone had grown tenfold. This was the first World Cup since England had hosted it back in his fourth year of Hogwarts, first since that dreadful night. It had taken a lot of petitions to happen, and it had a ridiculously huge following. And England had won. This would be news for half a century. 

Once people began filing out, Harry sat back down, expectant. Reporters, after all, didn’t just watch the match. They got inside it.   
A man walked into the office. Beads of sweat trickled down his pale face, flushed with pink. His hair was all over the place and his blue Quidditch robes hung off of his lean Seeker frame. His blue-grey eyes were wild with excitement and fervor. 

“Thank you for allowing me to interview you today, Mr. Malfoy,” Harry said. 

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow playfully and drawled, “Anytime, Mr. Potter.”

“Are you all ready to go? I have a spot where I do interviews. Helps me think. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“As long as you don’t take me to your secret cabin and murder me, it’s all good.” This time, Harry could have sworn Malfoy smiled. 

When they’d given him this assignment, he’d gotten mad. And then, to his embarrassment, excited. What better comeuppance than taking down Malfoy in the prime of his wizard career, destroying that cancer once and for all? He’d sworn to get into journalism to reform it, to be the opposite of Rita Skeeter—but after all, Malfoy’d gotten off at his trial scott free. Didn’t he deserve a little retribution? He’d quickly shoved that thought down—he wasn’t an angel of retribution or justice or anything like that, he didn’t get to decide who deserved what. That didn’t mean he had to be overly buddy-buddy to Malfoy, but…  
But that smile gave him a second thought. Well, he’d see how the interview went. Then he’d decide. 

“Mr. Potter—would you take my hand, please? I’m afraid I don’t know where we’re going.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Harry grabbed his arm and they spun out of existence and back again, into a small muggle coffee shop in Italy. 

The deck overlooked the Mediterranean, waves cracking and crashing on blackened shore. Harry ordered a coffee with two sugars; Malfoy ordered his black. 

“So, Malfoy, what’s it like re-entering the wizarding community’s public eye after the…last time you were so famous?”  
Malfoy chuckled. “You’re asking about my Wizengamot Trial, I guess?”

Harry murmured an affirmation. 

Malfoy set down his mug. “You know. It was a bit hard at first—walking out on the pitch during my first Quidditch match. Reminded me of walking into my trial, suit all done up, and getting eggs thrown at me. There’s nothing worse than eggy hair, let me tell you.” He chuckled, and then sipped his coffee. “But in all honesty, yes. I was afraid that people wouldn’t forgive me for my past, wouldn’t see me as a person after all of that. But they have, and I’ve got a lot of supporters now, whom I love very much. And I’m glad they could look past my failings.”

That had been a more honest answer than he’d been expecting—if a little rehearsed. Well. Might as well ask the tough ones, then.  
“And I read all about the work you did, voluntarily, to try to make amends for your previous actions. You were the sole financial support system for a home for Queer, Magical, homeless youth in London—but you stopped giving to them at all last year. Even though you still have the money. The home is on its last legs now. Why is that?”

Malfoy faltered, and the little Skeeter in Harry crowed. But he really was interested. “Listen, I don’t—“ he combed his fingers through his hair, fluffy, no longer greased back like it always had been. “Aren’t we here to talk about the match?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Of course he shouldn’t have expected a good answer from Malfoy. 

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Harry said nonchalantly.

“What did you just say to me?”

“Like father, like son, is all I’m saying.” He couldn’t help it—it pissed him off. 

“No, what the fuck did you just say to me?”

“You just gave to that charity to look good! Once everyone loved you and you didn’t have to anymore, you stopped! You’re just like your dad, Malfoy.”

Malfoy clenched his fist around his coffee mug. “You don’t know shit, Potter,” he growled.

“Very aggressive…you…don’t…know…shit,” Harry said loudly as he wrote. 

The waiter came over and took their orders—Harry was having a burger, Malfoy the garden salad. Harry frowned—he would think Malfoy would be ravenous, he’d just done a huge quidditch match. But maybe the strain on seekers to be light nowadays had intensified…Then he frowned again—why did he care, again?

Malfoy had unclenched his fist. “No, please, Potter, can you just—drop that line of questioning?” He took a deep breath. “I know you don’t have much reason to trust me, but I do have…reasons for doing what I do. It’s tearing me apart, watching the home fail. It really is.”

Harry, with I shall not tell lies emblazoned on his fist, was actually pretty good at telling whether people were being truthful. And Malfoy—eyes wide, hands twisted, legs open—really seemed to be being honest. 

“Malfoy, somebody’s gonna report on it at some point.”

“But it—it’s much worse if it’s you. You know that, Potter. And I—I really do care. About the home, I mean, I just…” Wherever that thought was going, he didn’t finish it.

“If you won’t tell the public, will you tell me? Then I can back you up. I won’t tell anyone, scout’s honor.” He didn’t really trust Malfoy, he told himself. He just wanted to know what Malfoy was hiding. He was curious. 

“No, I really can’t.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Okay, have it your way. But secrets aren’t secrets for long.” He moved on from that line and asked the more boring questions: favorite move, favorite game ever played, champion’s breakfast. It seemed that he wasn’t getting anything out of Malfoy today. 

But he had learned one skill in his six years at Hogwarts—how to figure out what the fuck Draco Malfoy was up to. And goddamn if he wasn’t about to figure out whatever shady shit the ferret had gotten himself into this time.


	2. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry realizes the power in this situation is his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be careful--there is a prelude to a rape/noncon scene in this chapter as well as abuse, although the rape doesn't happen in writing. if that triggers you, read with care, please, and take care of yourself.

Draco came home feeling sick to his stomach. If Potter knew about that, the rest of the wizarding world would soon follow. And they’d stone him in the streets again. And meanwhile, he’d lose all his money and he’d never be able to support the home. 

If he could just be good enough, this wouldn’t be a problem. 

But he wasn’t good enough. Never had been. When he looked at the time, he realized this even more than he had—it was 7pm, far too late to start making dinner. And there was Marcus, anyways, standing with his arms crossed. 

“I won, Marcus,” Draco said through a nervous grin. “Caught the snitch. England won!”

“Yeah, that’s my baby,” Marcus said, grinning too. “C’mere, sweetheart!” And Draco was wrapped up in a big bear hug. He melted. 

“I love you, M,” he said, smiling into Marcus’s eyes.

“I love you too, my little dragon,” Marcus said, and fluffed his hair. “But you were supposed to make dinner!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry Marcus, I—“

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I figured you’d be celebrating. I picked us up some stuff from the market.” He pulled a burger out of the bag and a salad. Draco gratefully accepted the salad and dug in. 

A few minutes later, plates cleaned and in the dishwasher, Marcus leaned over to Draco. “Draco, darling, you know what I want to do?”

Draco was falling asleep at the table. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, sweetie, you know what I want to do.”

“Marcus, I—“ Draco wasn’t sleeping anymore. His back was ramrod straight. 

“Come on, Draco, I let you have your fun. Let me have mine.”

“Marcus, I don’t really want to, I’m really tired…the race was long and—“

“Then you should have come back earlier instead of spending so much time partying with your friends! You left me here, you know. We could have gone for a quickie earlier if you hadn’t forgotten about me.”

“I’m sorry—I didn’t forget about you, I just didn’t think it was your scene—“

“If you didn’t think it was my scene, then you should have come back here instead of leaving me here waiting for you like a fucking idiot.”

“Marcus, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please—“

Marcus smacked him across the face. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Draco, I’m tired of all your whining. You abandon me at the match and still I support you, I get you a nice dinner, and then the one thing you can actually do right sometimes as my boyfriend, you won’t do? Why? Do you want me to be upset?” He said, smacking Draco across the jaw again. “Well? Do you?”

“No, I—“ Draco stopped speaking for a moment, tasting the blood on his lip. “No, I’m sorry, Marcus. Please fuck me.”

“Oh, c’mon, baby. You know that doesn’t turn me on. You gotta beg for it, baby.”

“Please, Marcus, I need you—I need your big cock inside me, I—“ the words felt disgusting in his mouth, foreign, “I need to suck you, I need you to rip me in half, I need to taste your cum, I need your cum inside me—“

“Okay, baby, if you need me that badly. C’mere.” 

\--------

Well, Harry held all the cards, after all. He could figure out what Malfoy was up to—and if he had to resort to threats…well, so be it. He picked up the telephone. A perk to the reporting job—access to almost everyone’s number. Seriously—the wizarding community would’ve gone berserk had they known. 

“Hello? Is Draco Malfoy there?” 

“This is he. Who is asking?” said a crisp voice on the other end of the line. 

“It’s Harry Potter.”

A sigh responded. 

“Listen, Malfoy, you’re going to want to hear what I want to say,” he began. 

“I’m not so sure I agree.” Harry could practically hear Malfoy pinching his nose in worry. 

“The thing is,” Harry started again, “You’ve asked me to do this favor for you. To not…run my story. And it’s a good story. And I’m going to be honest with you, as a reporter who does nothing if not seeking the truth, I feel…like it’s my duty to run this story.”

Silence on the other end of the line. 

“But again, I’ve got to seek the truth. So if…if perhaps you could provide me with some incentive to not run the story, well, then…that’d be different.”

Malfoy’s voice was weak, stringy, on the other end of the line. “I—Harry, I’ll do anything.” Hearing Malfoy like that almost made Harry feel bad. But he had to know. What if Malfoy was back on his old antics? After all, the last time Malfoy had been plotting, Bill had ended up bitten by a werewolf and Dumbledore had ended up dead. Malfoy could be dangerous. Very dangerous. It would be stupid to underestimate him. 

“Malfoy, I just want your honesty, really. Just tell me what’s going on, and I won’t tell a soul,” Harry proposed. 

“Harry, I can’t, I really can’t,” Malfoy pleaded. 

“Fine,” Harry sighed, and calculated. Perhaps… “Well, Malfoy, there’s only one other thing. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a book. A biography, really. And you seem like the perfect subject. A former bad-boy, a terrible past, now happily married and a Quidditch star…of course, I’d need special access to your affairs, the like. Really, I’d need to be with you almost all the time.”

“Harry, please, I need you to listen to me, I—“ 

“No, Malfoy, you need to listen to me. These are your options. I can publish an exposé on you, with the force of my reputation behind it. You can tell me what the fuck you’re up to. Or you can let me do a book on you. All-access, no holds barred, except I won’t ask about the charity. That’s it. Make your choice.”

Silence on the other end…and then. “Fine. You can have your book. I’ll have to clear it with my husband first.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Malfoy. But I’ll be asking for confirmation by tomorrow.”

“He’s very private, you know. He’s always said no to books in the past.”

“Well, you’ll just have to convince him.”

Malfoy swallowed on the other end of the line. “Fine. I’ll speak with him tonight.”

\-----------

“Marcus…I’ve got something to ask you,” Draco said tentatively. 

“What’s going on, little dragon?”

“Well, I’ve gotten quite a good offer from…well, from Harry Potter. For a book deal.” Malfoy looked at his husband, lip clenched between his teeth. 

He expected Marcus to look angry. Instead, he looked ecstatic. “Harry Potter?” he said. “Babe, Harry Potter…his name is synonymous with good. This’ll be so good for us, for you! The world will finally love you as much as I do!” Marcus held his hands. “Oh, babe, this is fantastic.” Then he lowered his brow, and put his hand on Draco’s face, drawing his thumb down his husband’s cheek. “Now, you’re going to have to be a very good boy while Harry is here. You can’t pull anything.”

“I know, my love,” Draco said. He’d try. God, was he such a bad husband that Marcus couldn’t even trust him to be good for a few hours a day?

“And really, there are going to be pictures in this book, there always are nowadays, so you’re going to have to lose that baby fat. I know you’ve been trying, but you haven’t been trying very hard. I saw you eating toast this morning—I thought you were going to cut out bread?”

“I was, I’m sorry, babe, we didn’t have any other food in the house.”

“We had coffee. Coffee’s got 0 calories, y’know.”

“I know,” Draco said. He couldn’t even talk. It was a wonder Marcus had married him. 

“Little dragon, I hope you know that I still think you’re handsome. You could just be a bit…more. Y’know, I wouldn’t want to have trouble…performing, because of just a little problem you could fix. I’m just trying to make you better.”

“I know, babe. You’re so good. I’m sorry I’m not good for you yet,” Draco frowned.

Marcus lifted his chin. “Oh, that’s okay, babe. You can make up for it for now…in other ways.” He smirked, and Draco smiled. Marcus loved him. That’s all he needed.


	3. Preliminary Findings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry interviews Draco and Marcus. And pub night!

It was Harry’s first day in Malfoy’s house, and god, he couldn’t believe how clean it was. 

Well, he’d spent seven years in classes with Malfoy. He’d seen his bag, and it was a right mess. And Marcus Flint…well, his stench during his school years was enough to tell Harry that he hadn’t exactly been a neat freak. 

Maybe they’d gotten a house-elf. That would be very Malfoy. But really, everything was glimmering. Pure, utter cleanliness. 

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy said. He’d suddenly appeared, wispy and quiet. It was no wonder he was a seeker—he was tiny, almost tinier than the last time Harry had seen him. And there was Marcus beside him—massive, at least a foot taller than Malfoy and definitely more than twice his weight. 

For a moment, Harry pictured what their sex must be like. Then, he almost puked. Flint? Having sex? Now that was an image he wished had never crossed his brain. 

“It’s nice to see you both,” Harry said, sticking out his hand. 

Flint shook it. “I hope we can put our little quidditch rivalry behind us, Harry. I seem to remember we almost knocked each-other off our brooms in your first year…and look, Draco’s better than either of us now.” He smacked Malfoy’s ass. 

Malfoy turned a delicate shade of pink. Harry pretended he hadn’t seen. He’d never been particularly good at reacting to PDA. “Yes, well, who would’ve thought? Anyways, I’m glad I’ve got you both here—as I’m doing a home visit, I’d like to establish the basics of Draco’s home life today…you know, his house, his husband, etcetera.”

“Of course. Here, come this way, we can talk in the lounge,” Flint smiled. “Drake, would you be a doll and get us some tea? Or do you prefer coffee, Potter?”

“Tea’s fine,” Harry said. No house elf. Interesting. 

“Get us a couple of biscuits, too, babe,” Flint called after Malfoy as he walked away. Malfoy grinned a blew a kiss. “You like guys, right, Potter? I feel like I read something about you and Finnegan or something…”

“Ah, yes. That piece. Yep, it’s true.”

“Draco’s got a nice ass, don’t you think?” 

If Harry’d been drinking tea, he would’ve choked. “Um…I’m not sure I’m in a position to say,” he responded, all composure. 

“Come on, Harry, writing’s always biased. You’re allowed to have opinions.”

“Be that as it may, I…” Harry began, and then trailed off. Thankfully, Flint didn’t pursue that particular conversation, or Harry might have had to awkwardly excuse himself to the bathroom. And that was the worst thing one could do during an interview.   
Malfoy walked in after a moment, with three cups of tea and two biscuits. He passed Flint and Harry tea and biscuits, and kept his own teacup—a bit of a frilly thing, with flowers and a delicate handle—to himself. 

“So, we’d better get started, then?” Harry said, pulling out a quill. “Let’s go for a classic. Who wears the pants in your relationship?” 

“That’s not very new-age of you, Potter. Don’t you know both of us can, nowadays?” Malfoy smirked and sipped his tea. 

“Draco. He asked a simple question,” Flint replied, raising his eyebrows at Malfoy. 

“Sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I like getting your characters in it.”

“Well, I’d say I wear the pants, don’t you think, my love?” Flint said, grinning at Malfoy. 

Malfoy smiled. “Oh, yeah, if we’re being serious. He deals with the money, the house stuff, taxes. I’m pretty useless at that stuff, if I’m being honest. I do the cooking usually, that sort of stuff. A bit gender-roles, so, sorry to the audience out there if you wanted something more progressive.”

“I wouldn’t take you for the cleaning type, Malfoy.”

“Oh, you know…comes with age. And I guess when we moved in, I just sort of fell into it.” Malfoy shrugged. 

Harry nodded, jotting a few words down for memory’s sake. “Great. Alright, Marcus—do you mind me calling you Marcus?” 

“Not at all.”

“Fantastic. What do you think are Draco’s best qualities?”

“Draco is very loving. Even if he doesn’t always get it right, he always tries, and that’s good on its own,” Flint responded, smiling at Malfoy. 

“And Draco?” “Well, Marcus is very sexy. I think I mainly married him for his looks.”

“Drake!” 

“Alright, alright. He’s so sweet to me, really. He’s always getting me gifts, complimenting me…he’s a big softie. I don’t think people see it so much because he’s so damn tall. But he is.”

“Adorable,” Harry said. Really, he was a bit grossed out. This sort of stuff was a bit too lovey-dovey for him. “What about worst qualities?” 

“Well, that’s not really a fair question to ask a couple! What’re you trying to do, start a fight between us?” Marcus said. Harry was pretty sure he was joking. 

“Oh, y’know, Marcus. Wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask.”

“Well, I don’t think Marcus has got any flaws. Or I can’t think of any off the top of my head. Too perfect, then, I guess,” Malfoy said, and grinned at Marcus. 

“Draco’s pretty great, too, Harry, gotta say. I mean, a bit forgetful sometimes. But he’s my Draco. And that’s all I need,” Marcus said. 

Harry interviewed them for about another hour or so, taking careful notice of their responses—he then thanked them and left. 

On his walk home, he thought. Draco Malfoy, a housewife? Who would’ve thought? Well, luckily for Harry, it was pub night. And he had news.

“I’m writing a book,” he said, and leaned back to deliver the bomb, but Hermione had already begun to react. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I always said you should. I really think this will help you get out of your rut, Harry, I think—“

“My rut?” Harry asked, laughing. 

“Well, you know.” Hermione nudged Ron. 

Ron just shrugged. 

“Ron, you said you’d say.”

Ron looked at the bar. 

Hermione sighed. “Well, Harry, I didn’t want to say it, but you’ve gotten a bit…harsh, recently. Not mean, just very…precise, with your writing in a way that might not be kind.”

Harry chuckled and took a swig of beer. “Well, then, you’re really not going to like the subject of my book.”

“Well, go on, mate, spit it out,” Ron said. Hermione leaned forward. 

Harry couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m writing a book on Draco Malfoy.”

Ron began to outright cackle, loud even for the constant hum of the pub. 

“Ronald!” Hermione elbowed Ron, and he succeeded in tempering his laughter to a chuckle interspersed with snorts. “Harry, are you sure?” 

“Yes! It’s the perfect opportunity. Also…” he leaned closer to the two. “I think he’s—“

“Up to something,” Ron and Hermione finished, Ron laughing, Hermione biting her lip.

“Well, yes,” Harry replied, flustered. 

“Mate,” Ron said, grin still plastered on his face, “This is all a feeling bit…Hogwarts, don’t you think? You stalking Malfoy?” 

“I’m not stalking him,” Harry said irritably. “Anyways, I was right. He was up to something at Hogwarts.” 

“Not every time. Remember when you thought he was the heir of Slytherin? At the ripe age of twelve?” Ron raised an eyebrow. 

“Well, he’s not twelve anymore. And he’s hiding something.”

Hermione’s lips were still pursed. 

“Oh, spit it out, Hermione,” he said. 

“Harry, I think that it might not be good—for either of you—to do this. I just think you should be careful. Malfoy’s grown a lot, and you’ve got to give him some credit for that.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t worry. I will. I’ll give him all the benefit of the doubt in the world.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry to push, Harry, really, I just—“

Harry waved her off. “No, no, you’re right. I know I have a tendency to be sharp, especially with people from back then. I promise I’ll be careful.” And he would, he really would. He knew he could be unkind sometimes, and already half-regretted the circumstances of this book—but it was too late now. All he could do was write a truthful book—and make sure Malfoy wasn’t up to anything terribly illegal. “If you want, I’ll even let you read it first and give me all your edits.”

“She’d rewrite the whole book, mate,” Ron laughed, and Hermione glared at him. “Hey, it’d be a good rewrite! You might need it, Harry,” Ron advised. 

“Oh, sod off.” 

“So, Hermione,” Ron turned, “Gin told me your story about pulling a clump of memories from up someone’s nose the other day. I’m begging you, give us all the gory details.” 

Hermione shook her head. “You know, I don’t get why people like hearing stories about gross medical things. I get home and it’s all Ginny asks me about.”

“Well, it’s got to be more interesting than the Holyhead Harpies,” Ron laughed. “If you’re not playing for the Chudley Cannons, what’s the point?” 

“Ginny is a much better seeker than Derrick Smith,” Hermione jabbed. 

“Never knew you to be one for Quidditch,” Harry pointed out. “Hermione’s in love!” 

“Shocking, as I’m married to the woman,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Anyways, Ronald, it wasn’t that interesting. The main problem was that I couldn’t retrieve it with my wand, so I had to put on some gloves and reach up there—“

“Ewww!” Ron replied. 

“You asked,” she shrugged, and drank another swig of beer.


	4. Rather Nice Teacups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry interviews Draco alone. And, later, does a bit of investigating.

Draco showed up at Harry’s office promptly the next morning for his one-on-one. There was noise coming from behind the office door, and Draco had knocked, but no one had answered and, as he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the interview in the first place, he wasn’t in a hurry to burst in or anything. 

After a few minutes, the door opened, and a disheveled Harry poked his head out. 

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, and adjusted his glasses. “Well, come in.” 

Draco entered the office and felt his eyebrows shoot up. He was typically good at tempering his reactions, but this one couldn’t be his fault. Harry’s office was a total mess. 

“Sorry for the…” Harry gestured. 

“Papers all over the floor? Muggle clothes strewn on the shelves? Or strange mud stains on every surface possible, including the ceiling?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I should’ve known you’d be prissy about it.”

Draco frowned. “Harry, I’d really like to—to not make this painful. If that’s at all possible, that is.”

Harry looked hard at him, and Draco had to keep from shrinking. Even now, with his very-nearly-mean newspaper columns and clear blackmailing skills, he still had it—that strange depth, that unwavering look he’d give you like he was reading your very thoughts. 

In an instant, though, it was gone, and Draco almost could’ve sworn he’d imagined it. 

“Yeah, okay. That makes sense.” Harry ran his hand through his hair. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The odds of Harry poisoning him were…probably low. “Yes, thank you.” 

“Great.” he waved his wand, and a half a second later two cups of steaming tea came hurtling through the door, still ajar—which, with another wave, he shut. 

“Wordless magic, Harry. I’m impressed,” Draco said truthfully. He was also impressed with the teacups, actually—they were pale blue with little rosebuds and shallow and much more delicate than Draco would have expected Harry to use. 

“Well—thank you,” Harry grimaced, for some reason. “Alright, no reason to wait around. So, Draco, do you keep in touch with your parents?” 

Draco choked on his tea. “That’s your first question?” 

“I’m writing a book, Draco, not a Cosmopolitan article,” Harry shot back. “Sorry. I’m trying to be nice, I promise, just…old haits die hard, I suppose.”

“It’s okay,” Draco sighed. “You’ve got a lot to be bitter about.” 

“I’m not bitter,” Harry answered immediately. 

“Wrong choice of words,” Draco shook his head. “You’ve got a lot to be...still angry about.” He sipped his tea, grateful for something to focus on besides Harry’s eyes. “I have changed, though. And…to answer your question. I visit my father on Christmases as a courtesy to my mother, although I’m not sure he particularly wants to see me anyway. As for my mother, yes. We have dinner together a couple of times each month, although…” He frowned. “I suppose I haven’t seen her in a couple of months.” 

“Your father doesn’t want to see you?” Harry followed up. 

“I told him about Marcus. Marrying a pure-blood is pretty useless if neither of you can procreate. I may as well have married a muggle.” He noticed Harry’s eyes darken. “Those are my father’s beliefs, I must add, not mine. Marcus’s blood status is a coincidence, and I don’t believe in purity of blood or any of that any more. I’m sorry that I ever did.”

“Do you ever get tired of constantly apologizing?” Harry asked, and then turned pink.

“What?” Was this a trap?

“I just mean…it must be hard to make friends, or anything, with your past. And you…well, you were a dick, and did bad things, but you were still a kid.”

“So were you. A kid, I mean, not a dick.” Draco shrugged. “So I was a kid. And now? I’d never do that. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have any choices.”

Harry looked at him curiously. It was Draco’s turn to blush. He hated being interviewed. 

“You,” he realized, “You aren’t taking notes.” 

“Yeah, I’ve got a recorder.” Harry held up a black box. 

“And that…that’ll take notes for you? I’m sorry. I played the recorder as a child, and I’m sure that’s not the same thing.” Draco turned even redder with embarrassment. God, this interview was hellish. 

“No, it,” Harry laughed. He had a nice laugh. Suited him better than the whole blackmailing thing. “It records your voice. So later, I can play it back and hear it again. Actually, I should’ve asked you before for your permission to record you. This whole interview is pretty much moot till now because I forgot.” He frowned. 

“It’s okay. I give you belated permission, if the recorder will allow it.” Draco said. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, and looked nearly surprised. God, he must think he’s an asshole. “Alright, onto the next question. I interviewed you about you and Marcus with you together, now I’d like to ask you some questions separately. So there’s no pressure to be romantic,” he chuckled. “So, Draco, how long have you two been married?”

“We’ve been together five years, married for about four and a half,” Draco replied, shifting in his seat. 

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Quick marriage, then.”

“When you know, you know, I suppose,” Draco shrugged, and fiddled with his cup. His tea was already going cold—he’d appreciated Harry’s choice of teacups aesthetically, but they were much too shallow to really keep the tea warm at all. 

“And you already told me what you love most about Marcus, that…” he turned to his notes from the last interview. He hadn’t brought his ‘recorder’ then, Draco noted. “He’s a big softie, always giving you gifts and complimenting you and the like. Now, if the reader knows or knows of Marcus Flint, they’re going to be picturing him as…not a softie, if I’m being honest. So, can you give me some examples of some of these…gifts and compliments? Just some anecdotes, so the readers can get to know him too?” Clearly, Harry didn’t want to seem like he actually cared about this gushy stuff, which Draco thought was a bit ridiculous. 

“Yeah, of course. Well, he got me this necklace, actually.” Draco pulled the chain towards Harry—a small dragon on a chain, wings outstretched, whose eyes seemed to dance with fire. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry that Draco had ever seen, and he’d grown up a Malfoy. Jewelry with subtle magic was hard to pull off—typically, either the magic was too flashy or the physical jewelry became quickly mottled with the after-effects of the spells. He had to try, a lot, to not think of how expensive it had been. 

“Wow,” Harry responded, clearly impressed. “For a special occasion?”

Draco felt the blood drain from his face. It had been stupid to mention the necklace, he realized now. It wasn’t as if he could tell Harry it’d been an apology. 

“No, he’s just…romantic like that.” Draco smiled. 

Harry’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, and Draco knew without a doubt that Harry could tell he wasn’t telling the truth. 

Nevertheless, Harry, blessedly, moved on. “Very romantic,” he said. “And on the other side of the coin—what’s the worst argument you two have ever had?” 

Draco could have laughed, if he wasn’t too busy feeling his stomach doing somersaults in his throat. “Huh?” 

“Your worst argument. No-holds-barred, Draco, readers want real now. No relationship is perfect, they won’t judge.”

That was true. But if Harry—and everyone else—knew how terrible of a husband he was…he’d be ruined. They’d all hate him, all over again. “I—“ he swallowed, trying to come up with a lie, but Harry would see through it just like he had last time, and it had been too long, and why couldn’t he just make something up, why was he so stupid, “I—“ he swallowed, and picked up his tea to drink more only to realize the cup was empty.

Harry pointed his wand at the teacup, filling it up with another wordless spell. He looked at Draco, for a moment, and Draco worked hard not to shrink again. “That’s alright. I suppose it wouldn’t really be fair to ask that without Marcus knowing, anyways.” 

Thank god. Draco drank his tea—never mind it was scalding—and struggled to regain his breath to respond. “Thanks,” he managed. “Sorry,” he added, and then set his cup down. “Got any other questions?”

“Yeah, of course.” Harry ran his hand through his hair again. “Actually—wait. I really am sorry if I overstepped. Well. Hermione’s been on my ass recently about being a bit unkind and obviously the situation…” he waved his hand around, “In which this book deal arose was not...ideal, but I do want to tell your story fairly and accurately. So.” 

Draco couldn’t quite make heads or tails of that, but he also was a bit too anxious to try, so he opted for a “Thanks,” until he realized it sounded too could. “I mean, thank you. And…I mean, you’ve saved my life. I do trust you, even if I think you’re a bit of a—“ he cut himself off.

“A bit of a what?” Harry raised his eyebrows. 

“It—it doesn’t matter.” 

“No, go on, finish! Wouldn’t want to cut you off.” 

“No, I—can we just keep going with the questions?” Draco asked, and Harry chuckled. 

“Yeah, okay. So, we’ve talked about your parents a bit, Marcus a bit, why don’t we talk about your career? What drew you into the field of quidditch? 

“Well, if I’m being honest, I never really liked it at Hogwarts. I was desperately competitive, as you know, and I wouldn’t go so far as say I was bad, but I also wasn’t great. During the war, though,” he looked to the side and hoped his expression was unreadable, “Well, I was shut up in my house for a while and then…my dungeon, for another while, and I dreamed of flying. Literally, dreamed. I’d fall asleep and feel the wind, and the adrenaline, and when I got out, I started flying. A lot. And…understandably, I didn’t have a lot of friends after the war, so I didn’t have much to do besides fly.”

Harry nodded. Draco had been talking so long, he’d been sure Harry would be either snoring or sneering at him, but he was just looking at him. “And why did you decide to become a seeker?” he asked.

“When I finally worked up the courage to try out for a team—just a minor league type thing, mind you, not England or anything—well, I was actually going to try out for chaser at first. But…well, on the day I was going to try out, I found this bird on the sidewalk. Its wing was broken, it was in pain. Just a little, golden, fluffy thing. So I took it back to my house and skipped tryouts, just tried to nurse it back to health or something. And it did. It survived, and flew right away one day. I think…I think that was the first good thing I ever did. And something sentimental in me remembered how the golden snitch used to be a bird, and the rest is history.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “That’s pretty lovely, actually, Draco.” 

Draco looked away. “Thanks. It wasn’t all poetic as it sounds, probably. Just me being too nervous to go to the try-outs and looking for something to—“ but he shut himself up. That wasn’t helping, and he was supposed to be on his best behavior. 

Harry smiled faintly. “Draco, have you read The Goldfinch?”

“What?” 

“It’s by Donna Tartt. She’s a muggle, mind, so the book is too, but it’s pretty good. So you haven’t read it?” 

“No, I haven’t,” Draco replied. This felt oddly specific for an interview question. 

“Something tells me you’d like it. Do you like fiction?”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Draco shrugged. 

Harry smiled—a real smile. “Good. Here.” He reached behind him and pulled a book off the bookshelf, handed it to Draco. Draco took it delicately in his hands—it was thick. “You should read it,” Harry said. 

“Okay. Is this for your book?” Draco asked uncertainly. 

“What?” Harry frowned. “Oh. No, no, I just thought you’d like it.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Draco said.

“Oh, and—“ Harry was blushing now. God, this whole conversation was so strange. “Well, it has an inscription from Ginny in it. Back when she was my girlfriend. It’s just a heart or something, I think, pay no mind.”

“You’re not dating the Weaslette anymore?” 

Harry frowned. “I thought we were being civil. She’s my friend.”

“Sorry. Weasley, you’re not dating her?” 

“No. Unfortunately, or fortunately, we both turned out to be gay.”

This conversation was getting so, so strange. Too strange for Draco’s liking. “Well, thanks for the book!” He said, too cheerfully, and left the office before Harry could respond. 

\------

Harry watched Draco just about flee his office and put his head in his hands. 

“Idiot!” he said quietly, and then looked around furtively to make sure no one had seen him talking to himself. His eyes landed on the recorder, and he flicked it off before thumping his head down on the desk.

He knew that sometimes he got in too deep. Went too far. Stopped thinking clearly once he’d set his mind to something. It had happened ever since Hogwarts, and he knew he often saw conspiracy where there was nothing wrong—at least, that’s what his therapist said, and she was, in Harry’s opinion, pretty excellent. 

Blackmail? How had he managed to let himself go this far? Hadn’t he promised he wouldn’t be like Rita Skeeter? Hadn’t he said he’d wanted to reform journalism? And god, he could tell Draco had changed. Harry wasn’t an idiot. He was just an asshole. 

But he's up to something, Harry reminded himself. He’s deliberately hiding something. No reason he couldn’t write a decent book about the reformed Draco Malfoy and do a little investigating on the side. And, well, if it turned out to be nothing, then it was all for the better.

He packed up his shoulder bag, polished his glasses, and, as an afterthought, shoved the recorder into his bag, before leaving his office. He had one more place to go before getting back to his flat—but it wasn’t too far, he might as well walk. His head was spinning and he wasn’t sure he could stomach apparition at the moment. 

The August air was chilly, but nothing too cold, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. Ginny had given him that book, ages ago, and looking back on it, it had been very strange of him to give it to Draco—an act of shame, maybe. He found himself hoping, though, that Draco would like it anyways. 

But that hadn’t been the only odd part of the interview. No. Draco’s answers had thrown him off on every question—oscillating wildly in between thoughtful, eloquent responses and stuttering nothings. And Harry knew he’d lied, at least once or twice, but it hadn’t seemed to be anything that really mattered. Like the necklace—well, who knew. Maybe it was a weird sex thing, and Harry really didn’t want to think about Marcus Flint having sex for the second time in two days. 

Merlin. Too late for that. 

He spent the rest of his walk trying to get that image out of his head, rather unsuccessfully, and found he’d reached his destination before he knew it. 

It was looking shabby. The windows were smudged and plants were growing nearly over the steps of the home for queer, homeless, magical youth. He knocked. 

A young girl opened the door, maybe twelve years old. She stared. 

“Afternoon,” Harry said, trying to be jovial. 

The girl blinked. “Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. Do you…want to come in?”

“I would love that,” Harry said, and stepped inside. The girl shut the door behind him. 

“I didn’t catch your name,” Harry said. 

“Margo. My name’s Margo.”

“Nice to meet you, Margo. I’m Harry. I was wondering if I could speak with…ah, what’s her name? Mrs. Twilton?”

Margo wouldn’t stop looking at him. Her were piercing, young and old at the same time. Reminded him a bit of Hermione. “Mrs. Twilton’s in a meeting right now. You can wait, if you want, except there are people in the sitting room. I guess they could leave—“

“Oh, no, that’s alright, Margo. Do you think I’d bother them if I stayed there for a bit and waited for Mrs. Twilton?” 

“No,” she said. “Here, it’s this room on your left.”

Sure enough, the room—with a couple of couches and a table with a puzzle on it—was currently being used for a rather raucous game of exploding snap between two gangly teenage boys. They seemed to not even notice he’d entered. He sat down on the couch, and Margo hovered next to him. 

“That’s Stephen. He’s been here for a couple of weeks now. And that’s Colin—he just got here, but he’s nice, I guess.” 

Harry looked at the boys. “I had a friend named Colin, a while ago. When in school.” 

Margo sat down on the seat opposite him, and criss-cross apple sauced her legs on the couch. “He’s not your friend anymore?” 

Harry coughed. What to say? “No, ah—he passed away, actually.”

“Oh.” Margo looked down. “How?” 

Harry sighed heavily. He really shouldn’t be telling a twelve-year-old this. “In the war.” 

Margo nodded silently. “I’m reading a book about the war for school. For history of magic. It’s the summer reading.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. The fact that things like that were now in history classes was startling, something he didn’t like to think about. “You’re at Hogwarts, then?” 

“Yep. Going into my second year in a couple of weeks.” She looked proud at this. 

Harry grinned. “Second year. Binns still teaching history of magic, then?” 

“Yes. He’s very interesting. I didn’t know that ghosts could teach classes.” 

Harry chuckled. “If I’m being honest, I found his lectures pretty boring when I was at Hogwarts. But you seem cleverer than me. Bit like a friend of mine who used to lend me her notes.” 

Margo tilted her head, and Harry realized only about half of that made sense. 

“So is history of magic your favorite class?” Harry asked. 

“No. I like transfiguration. And I’m very excited for Herbology this year. Professor Longbottom’s supposed to be the best,” she confided. 

“Oh, Neville’s great,” Harry grinned again. He’d visited Neville at Hogwarts just last year—seeing him surrounded by plants and a herd of children in the greenhouse was entirely fitting. “And he’s stellar at herbology. Saved my life with it, more than once.” 

“You can save someone’s life with herbology?” Margo asked, impressed. 

“Oh, yes. If you’re lucky, Professor Longbottom may even tell you how.” 

“I hope so,” Margo said. 

“Who teaches transfiguration, now that McGonagall’s the headmistress?” Harry asked curiously. 

“Oh, she still teaches transfiguration. Apparently, she tried to give it to someone else a few years ago and they did a terrible job, so she just kept teaching it.”

Harry laughed out loud at that. “Yep, that’s McGonagall. Is she still the Gryffindor head of house, too?” 

“Oh, no. Our head of house is Professor Dwindle. He teaches defense against the dark arts,” Margo explained. 

“You’re a Gryffindor!” Harry exclaimed. “Excellent. Best house there is, you know.” 

Margo grinned. 

Just then, a middle-aged woman came into the room. “Colin, Stephen, do be careful with that. Margo, who’s our visitor?” she asked, and then glanced at Harry. “Oh. Hello, Mr. Potter,” she said, evidently confused. 

He stood up and stuck out his hand. “You must be Mrs. Twilton.”

“Have you been waiting for me?” She asked. 

“Oh, only for a bit. And Margo has been catching me up on all the latest Hogwarts news, so I don’t mind at all. I was wondering if you had a moment, though.” 

“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Twilton replied. “Thank you, Margo. Would you like to come to my office, Mr. Potter?” 

“That would be lovely, thanks,” he replied. “Hope to see you again, Margo! Tell Longbottom I said hello.” 

Margo waved back, and Harry followed Mrs. Twilton out of the room. 

“So, what brings you to the Lochrin home, Mr. Potter?” Mrs. Twilton asked once they were seated in her office. 

“Well, actually, I’m writing a book on Draco Malfoy.” 

Mrs. Twilton’s gaze hardened. “Draco, you say? And how is he doing?” 

“He’s doing well. I mean, he just won the Cup for England, so. Anyways, I’m aware that he was the sole financial support for this home for some time, is that correct?”

“Yes. He was very generous, that boy. And always stayed and played with the children afterward. We’ve still got a couple of his old broomsticks. Margo, the girl you were talking to, is begging to take one to Hogwarts with her.”

“Oh?” Harry asked. 

“Yes. She’s pretty good, actually, I’ve seen her fly. Draco got her started. She wants to try out for beater on her house team this year.” 

Harry grinned. She’d be perfect for that. But that’s not what he was here for, he reminded himself. “He stopped supporting the home at all about a year ago, yeah?” 

Mrs. Twilton’s gaze hardened again. “Mr. Potter—“

“Can you tell me why?” 

She took a deep breath. “Mr. Potter, I don’t want to give you material to harm Draco. He’s a good man, and if that’s what you’re here for, then I think it’s best for you to leave.” 

“No!” Harry said quickly. “No, I’m just trying to piece it all together, that’s all.” 

“And you can’t get this information from the subject of your book himself?” 

Harry sighed. “He hasn’t been entirely—honest, about it.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “Well, perhaps you’re prying.” 

Harry frowned. “Mrs. Twilton, I’m just trying to get the whole story.” 

Mrs. Twilton looked at him for a moment, then said, “Well, if you must know, he didn’t give a reason. He just came in here one day…sobbing his eyes out, and told me he couldn’t do it anymore.” 

“Sobbing his eyes out?”

“Mr. Potter, Draco Malfoy loved this place. I’m not sure why he stopped supporting us, and I have tried very hard to be angry with him about it, but I am absolutely certain that if there was any way for him to continue, he would be doing so. And yes. He was very broken up about it. He quite nearly lost it when I mentioned Margo.” 

Harry frowned. This was all…very strange. 

“I see,” he said, and after a moment, “Well, thank you, Mrs. Twilton. And—I was wondering if I could make a donation?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “If you think that I’m going to give you information about Draco in exchange for money—“

“No—nothing like that. Completely separate events,” Harry assured her. 

“Well, then, yes. That would be very nice.”

“How much?” Harry asked. 

“Mr. Potter, that’s for you to decide.” 

“No, I—“ Harry sighed. “I was an idiot for not doing this before. I’ve got enough money. Just tell me how much you need.”

Mrs. Twilton raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Potter, you’re sounding much like Draco now.” 

Well, considering what an asshole he’d been—and what an asshole Draco hadn’t been—maybe Harry could take that as a compliment.


	5. Over the Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus gets mad at Draco. Harry conducts a third interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi everyone--the first scene in this chapter is upsetting. If you need to skip it, just go to the next break. And watch out for yourselves, please!

“What is this, Draco?” 

Marcus was holding The Goldfinch. 

“It’s—it’s a book, Marcus, what’s wrong?” Draco said, uncertainly. 

Marcus grabbed his arm and squeezed. “You know what.”“No, Marcus, I don’t, please—“

“Stop begging. You sound so weak when you do that. Really, you do know, Draco, I’ve seen the inscription. A heart, really? And I saw you during our interview. You were flirting with Harry the whole fucking time. You were so obvious about it.”

“What?” Draco asked. God, he didn’t even think of Harry like that—why did he have to have such a flirty nature? He wished he didn’t make Marcus think he didn’t love him, god, why did he do that, why was he such a terrible—

Marcus started ripping pages out of the book. Draco paled. “Marcus, that doesn’t belong to me. You can’t—“

“Yes, I can, Draco, I think it’s well within my rights to tear up a gift from the person my husband is cheating on me with.”

“I’m not, I’m not, I swear, Marcus,” Draco said, watching helplessly as Marcus ripped the book to shreds. 

“Why the fuck would he be interested in you, anyways? I swear, you’re not even trying on this diet, I saw you put sugar in your tea, don’t think I didn’t, you’re getting fatter by the day.” He smacked Draco again. “Stop crying!” Marcus groaned. “It’s so fucking irritating. You know I wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t been flirting with Harry, you know that makes me angry. And you probably made Harry uncomfortable. I shouldn’t have to deal with you crying as well.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Draco coughed, trying to swallow his tears. Marcus was right, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. He deserved so much better. “I love you. I swear, it wasn’t an inscription from him, it was—“ but Marcus’s eyes were black and Draco didn’t matter, he’d been bad, he’d been bad. “I love you.” 

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you don’t.” Marcus shook his head. “It hurts, Draco. It hurts to know that you don’t care about me.” 

“I do, I do care about you—“

Marcus got very close to him. Close enough to kiss, close enough to feel hot breath on his skin. “Then why don’t you show it?” he asked.

\---------

Harry had been so busy with writing this week, he wasn’t sure he could make it to another in-person interview with Draco. Besides, the next one he was going to schedule was with his husband as well, and he hated watching Draco and Marcus interact—it was so weird. So he’d scheduled a phone interview instead, and hoped to god Draco knew how to use a telephone better than Ron did.

He was in his office again—which was even messier than it had been the last time, he really did need to learn some cleaning charms—and had just gotten his notebook out when the phone rung. “Hello?” He answered. 

Draco cleared his throat on the other end of the line. “Hello, Harry.” 

“Glad to hear you understand how a telephone works,” Harry laughed. 

“Yes, well, I do have a few ascertainable skills. Talking has always been one of them,” Draco replied. “Do you have your recorder today?”

“No, it gets very fuzzy over the phone,” Harry laughed. Draco’s obsession with his recorder reminded him of Arthur’s constant questions. 

“Ah. I’ll try to speak slowly, then.” Draco replied. 

“Appreciated,” Harry replied. “So, Draco, it’s the off-season for Quidditch now. What do you do in your spare time?” 

“Hm…Nothing particularly interesting, I’m afraid. I do some cooking, do some reading, I like to take walks…and I fly, of course, because I’ve got to keep in shape and the off season isn’t very long. People do love watching us suffer through Quidditch in the winter.” 

“I can only remember. That one time I had to play in the pouring rain…” Harry trailed off, remembering exactly what had happened. He hadn’t meant to bring up old rivalries. 

But Draco didn’t seem put off. “Ah, yes. I seem to remember that I was supposed to play in that match as well.” 

“Yes, well. Let’s talk about Hogwarts, that’s as good a topic as any. Do you still keep in touch with your friends from school?”

“Some of them, yeah. Well, Marcus, of course, but that was more hero-worship than friendship. Pansy and I were terribly close in school, and we still talk some—I used to meet her for lunch quite often, actually.” Draco’s voice trailed off suddenly. 

“Draco?” Harry asked. “Draco, I think you’ve cut out.” 

“No, no, I’m here. Sorry. Just was thinking, I haven’t seen Pansy in a while.”

“Well, you’ve been busy. Winning for England and all that,” Harry reasoned. 

“Yes, yes, of course. And Goyle and I see each other once and a while—he and my mum were always close, so he sometimes comes to dinner with us. Mainly Pansy, though. And she’s doing pretty well for herself.” 

“Mm. What’s your favorite memory from Hogwarts?”

“Christmas, definitely. Sometimes I went home, but the Christmases at Hogwarts felt…so warm, it was incredible.”

Harry smiled. “I felt exactly the same. My first Christmas at Hogwarts was magical.” 

“Shocking, as Hogwarts is a school of magic,” Draco replied. 

“Yes, well, you know what I mean,” Harry replied. “Hey, did you know Binns is still teaching a history of magic?” 

“Oh, dear lord. Will that man—ghost—ever retire?”

“I’m not actually sure,” Harry laughed. “I’m glad you agree he’s boring, though. The person I was talking to said she enjoyed his teaching, which shocked me.” 

“God, who?” Draco replied. 

Shit. “Um—Hermione,” Harry said quickly. 

“I see,” Draco said. Harry suddenly regretted doing this over the phone—he couldn’t tell without looking at Draco’s face if he’d caught the lie. 

“Look, actually…to tell the truth, it was this girl Margo. From Lochrin.”

There was silence on the other line. 

“Draco?” Harry asked. 

“How is she?” His voice was quiet.

“She’s…good. Excited for second year. Talked my ear off about Herbology.”

“That’s good.” 

Harry had no idea what Draco was thinking right now. 

“Look. I know I said I would forget about the shelter, but—“

“You don’t need to explain yourself, Harry,” Draco said. “I was pretty sure you’d look into it anyways. And I also know that Mrs. Twilton doesn’t really know anything more than you do, so.” Draco took a breath. “But I would appreciate it if you didn’t make Margo feel like you care about her. She’s already lost a lot of people, and…she’s a really good kid.”

That was not at all the reaction Harry had expected. “I won’t. And that wasn’t my intention at all to begin with.”

“Good,” Draco replied. “Well—would you like to continue the interview?”

“Yes, that’d be great. Er…have you and Marcus ever thought of having kids?”

“It’s complicated,” Draco replied. “He wants kids, but…I’m not ready. With my schedule and all. And, well, the Malfoy’s have never been great at raising kids.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Wouldn’t want to muck it up, is all. That’s a whole human being. And with me being gone all the time, and Marcus working, it wouldn’t work at the moment anyways, so.”

“And once you’ve settled down? Retired, or at least stopped playing pro?”

“Just…” Draco sounded torn. “Again, it’s so easy to muck up, and I wouldn’t want to.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’d be a good parent. You were good to the kids at the shelter.”

“I don’t want kids, Potter!” Draco snapped on the other line. 

Harry pulled the phone away from his ear. When he put it back, Draco was apologizing. 

“I’m sorry, that—that wasn’t—you didn’t do anything, and I—“ his words were stumbling, unsure. “I shouldn’t have done that, and I shouldn’t have called you that, I just—I’m sorry, Harry.” He sounded miserable. 

“No, you don’t need to apologize. The question was asked and answered. I was pressing,” Harry said. He hadn’t known that it was a touchy subject, but still. He probably should’ve let it go sooner. 

“No, you couldn’t have known,” Draco replied. “I just—you asked last time about the worst argument Marcus and I have ever had, and…that’s probably it. Marcus really wants kids, and I…I just don’t think it would be good. Right now. But he’s older than me, and wants to do it sooner, and…” Draco trailed off. “It’s complicated, is all.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. 

“Really. Don’t apologize, I wasn’t…that shouldn’t have been at you.” Draco said. 

Harry shook his head. “It seems like every time I interview you, we end up pissing each other off.”

“Shocker, considering our history,” Draco said, but it sounded like a joke, not meant to be mean. “And I don’t think we got into a fight during the first interview.”

“Yes, well, Marcus was there. I imagine he calms you down,” Harry reasoned. 

“Sounds suspiciously like you’re blaming our arguments entirely on me,” Draco joked.

“That wouldn’t be fair, would it?” Harry replied. “More my fault than yours, probably. I have a tendency to go too far. Shall we move on with the interview?”

“Yes, sounds—hold on, just a moment.” Draco cut off for a moment. 

Harry could faintly hear a conversation on the other end of the line, but couldn’t tell what was being said at all. The other voice was definitely Marcus’s, though.

Soon enough, Draco came back. “Actually, would you mind stopping now? I’m a bit drained and haven’t seen Marcus all day, and—“

“Yeah, no problem,” Harry replied. “Same time tomorrow, though, do you mind?”

“Yes, sure.” The conversation ended with a click. 

After he hung up the phone, Draco went downstairs to cook dinner. 

God, that had been a terrible conversation. 

He’d quickly realized Marcus was right—his and Harry’s banter had quickly started sounding like flirting, which had made him feel sick. And then he’d yelled at Harry over the phone, which had been embarrassing, to say the least. He just hoped Harry wouldn’t bring up the topic in front of Marcus. 

The thing was, he knew Marcus was right about that, too. They’d gotten married with the full intention of adopting together. Maybe even someone from the shelter. Maybe even Margo. But Draco wasn’t an idiot. He knew he and Marcus wouldn’t make good parents. And the one time Marcus had come to the shelter and spoken with Margo…he’d had to go to the bathroom and vomit. No, it would be wrong. Draco knew that.

But he couldn’t explain that to Marcus, so he was left with the same bullshit excuses he’d given Harry, and that…that wasn’t good. Because Marcus wanted a kid, had always wanted a kid, and it wasn’t fair of Draco to marry him and then change his mind. 

The stew was cooking on the stove, the bread was in the oven, and Draco went to go set the table. Marcus was sitting in the living room. 

“Hey, love,” he said, and stood up and walked towards Draco. “I wanted to apologize. For the book. I was upset, but…it wasn’t nice of me. I know how much you like reading, and how bored you are these days without Quidditch.”

“It’s okay, Marcus,” Draco waved him off. “I get how it could sound like me and Harry…but really, nothing was going on…”

“I know,” Marcus replied, and kissed his forehead. “I know, babe. I bought you this.”

Marcus held out a book for Draco. David Copperfield. “This one’s muggle, too,” he said. “The bookshop clerk said it was good.” 

Draco had read it, but so long ago. He took the book from Marcus. “That’s sweet, Marcus,” he said. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Dinner smells good,” Marcus said. “What’d you make?”

“Stew. And I baked some bread as well.”

“Sounds delicious, babe,” Marcus replied. “I made you dinner, too.” 

“You did?” Draco replied, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. 

“Oh, yeah,” Marcus said, and looked down. Draco realized what he meant. 

“Lovely, Marcus,” he said, pursing his lips. 

“C’mon, babe. It’ll be delicious,” Marcus winked. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco laughed, but knelt down anyways.


	6. A Box of Letters, a Bowl of Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes back to the shelter. Later, he brings soup to Draco Malfoy, and hears something he wasn't meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all,  
> ok Draco kind of acts OOC for this chapter and a bit of the next but he's quite sick so that accounts for some of the hysteria. the limitations of my own abilities can account for the rest lol. I'm glad you are reading! :)

Harry wasn’t exactly sure why he was back at the shelter—probably something to do with his guilty conscience—but there he was, knocking on the door again. It swung open, and, to Harry’s delight, Margo’s intense gaze met his eyes. She broke into a smile when she saw him. 

“Mr. Potter!” she said. “You’re back!” 

“Hullo, Margo.” He grinned. 

“Mrs. Twilton isn’t here, though,” Margo informed him. “She’s out at the store. She’ll be back later, if you want to come back.” 

“No, it’s okay. I can wait,” Harry said with a shrug, and walked into the building. “How has your day been?” 

“It’s been okay,” Margo said. “I’ve been packing for Hogwarts.”

“That’s exciting,” replied Harry. “Need any help?” 

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t need to,” Margo said. God, this kid was sweet. And unexpectedly shy, sometimes, which made Harry’s heart hurt a bit. 

“I’ve got nothing but time.”

“You sure?” Margo asked carefully. 

“Yeah, Margo, I’m sure. Otherwise I’ll be left to watch Colin and Stephen play exploding snap, and that sounds boring.” 

“You think a lot of things are boring,” Margo replied. 

“Huh?” Harry asked, eloquently. 

“Professor Binns. Exploding snap. What do you find exciting, then?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Packing, definitely,” he said, and grinned. 

Margo smiled, but rolled her eyes. “It’s a real question, Mr. Potter.”

“You can call me Harry, you know.” Harry sighed. “Hm. Let’s see. I like reading books—novels, mostly, and I like travelling…I’ve always liked to fly. I played Quidditch when I was at Hogwarts.”

“I know. You were a seeker,” Margo replied. “Got on the team your first year.”

“How do you know that?” Harry asked. 

"Someone told me," Margo shrugged. “This is the room I share with Thomas and Eleanor and Mary,” she continued instead of elaborating, and led him into a room with four cots. “And this is where I keep my stuff.” She pointed to a small set of shelves. 

There was a trunk lying open on the bed. “So, Margo, when you said you’ve packing all day—“ He eyed the empty trunk. 

“Okay, I haven’t started packing yet. But I’ll start now.” She picked up some books and wedged them against the side of the box. Harry helped a bit with spells now and then, to make things fit neatly, which Margo grinned at—he’d forgotten that minors couldn’t use magic outside of school, and how exciting it was to see it. It was easy work, anyways, and Harry found himself reminiscing about Hogwarts more than he typically did. After a while, almost everything was packed, except for a few articles of clothing left out for the next couple of days, and a small shoebox that sat at the foot of her bed. 

“You missed that,” Harry said, pointing. 

Margo frowned. “I…I don’t know if I want to bring it, actually.”

“What is it?” Harry asked. That was a rather odd response, he thought. 

“It’s letters,” Margo replied, “But they’ve stopped now.”

“Letters?” Harry asked. “From friends?” 

“Sort of,” Margo said with a shrug. She picked up the box and sat down on the bed. Harry sat down next to her. She opened the box and passed him a letter. “He used to come here a lot but now he doesn’t any more and then he wrote me sometimes but now he doesn’t do that either,” she explained quickly. 

That, and the elegant slope of the handwriting, made Harry realize who the letters were from. “Draco Malfoy?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer. 

“Yes,” she said, and then, “How do you know that?” 

Harry wondered how to respond. “I know him, actually,” he said, as he read bits and pieces of the letter. _I am glad to hear that you are happy in your house,_ Draco had written, _and I hope that the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin will not keep you from writing. You are certainly brave and noble and all of those other Gryffindor traits, although perhaps a bit too clever for the common denominator there…now, see? There’s the rivalry already. I seem to remember it could get rather intense back when I was at school,_ no kidding, Harry thought, _but perhaps your generation is kinder than mine. Regardless, I don’t mean it—Gryffindor is an excellent house filled with a good sort, and I’m sure you’ll take them by storm. How are your roommates? Your classes?_ It read much like a letter from an older sibling. Or even a parent.

  
“You know him? Is he okay?” Margo asked. 

  
“Yes, he’s…he’s alright,” Harry replied. “He asked after you.”

  
Margo swung her legs a bit. “Then why doesn’t he write?” She asked softly. 

  
Harry sighed. “I…I don’t know. I think he wants to, but…I’m not sure why he won’t.” 

  
“Will you find out?” Margo asked. “You don’t have to,” she added quickly. “But he didn’t say he’d stop writing, he just did, and I didn’t think he would…do that.”

  
Harry folded the letter and gave it back to her. “I don’t think he would either, Margo. I’ll talk to him,” he promised, even as he kicked himself. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  
“Thank you,” she said, and climbed off the bed. “I think I will bring them. It wouldn’t be right to leave things here, if someone might move into my bed, after all.” 

  
Harry didn’t think that was why at all, but he didn’t say anything, just thought. What was going on with Draco Malfoy?

  
\-------

For a week and a half, now, Harry had only been conducting over-the-phone interviews. But Draco had been sounding just awful the last couple days, and he said Marcus was busy with work, so he figured he’d go over, interview him in person, bring him some soup. It was the decent thing to do, after all, and soup always made things better. So he found himself on Draco’s doorstep, Tupperware in hand. He knocked.

  
Draco opened the door, vacuum cleaner in hand. 

  
Wait, what? He hadn’t seen one of those since Privet Drive. 

“Malfoy, why have you got a vacuum cleaner? Did you curse it?” Maybe Draco was one of those wizards that Arthur had to deal with—cursing muggle objects and then putting them in antique shops and the like. But a vacuum cleaner felt like an odd choice for an antique shop. 

“What? No. I’m cleaning, obviously,” Draco responded. 

“With muggle stuff?” Harry asked. 

“Oh, Marcus likes it better cleaned by hand. He doesn’t think that spells really do the job—I have to say, I agree,” Draco said. 

God. Draco somehow managed to make cleaning a pretentious activity. 

But really, Draco looked awful. Somehow, in a week, he’d become much more drawn out, paler. His curls hung over his eyes as if they’d lost some of their spring. “Malfoy, you look awful.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean—you look really sick. You should be lying down.”

“Well, somebody’s got to do the cleaning, and Marcus is working,” Draco responded.

“The house can survive for a day, Draco.”

“No, Harry, I don’t want to live in a sty, talk about getting sick—“ Draco was getting worked up. He seemed on edge, too, probably from illness. 

“Fine. I’ll clean the house, you go lie down.”

“That’s not your job,” Draco said. 

“Yes, well, my job is to interview you, but I can’t very well do that if you’re dead, can I?” Harry asked, only half-kidding. 

“You won’t know how to do it. I doubt you’ve cleaned in your life,” Draco sniffed. 

“You’d be surprised, Draco. It was practically my full-time job until the age of eleven. So please, go to bed. I brought you soup, too, you should eat some.” 

“Oh…I’m not feeling good, I’ll probably throw it up, actually. But thanks.”

“Just a couple sips, Draco, you look like you haven’t eaten in a week,” Harry insisted. 

“Alright,” Draco acquiesced. “Just…give it to me, and I’ll eat it upstairs.” 

“Alright, here,” Harry said. “But go to bed. I’ll be there in a few.”

Cleaning felt like a melancholic sort of home to Harry. He dusted, vacuumed, mopped, shined, washed, even fixed the water pressure for the sink. Hours passed before he noticed, and when he finished, he looked at his watch, shocked. If he was going to interview Draco, he’d better get a move on. 

He went upstairs, looking around until he found the master bedroom, which Draco and Marcus had pointed out to him during the last home visit. Draco was lying on the bed, eyes closed, tangled up in white sheets and sweaty. He seemed to be breathing lightly and murmuring—Harry could just make out a breathless please! 

He was intruding. After all, after the war? Everyone had nightmares. He sure did. And he’d feel uncomfortable as fuck if someone listened to what he, no doubt, said in his sleep. But then again…maybe it was about something else. If he was snooping on Malfoy, he couldn’t let up because he felt awkward. It’d never stopped him before. 

“Please, stop—“ Voldemort, no doubt, from the sound of sheer helpless fear in Draco’s voice. Maybe he’d tortured Draco when he’d been living at the manor…Draco had been so young, after all. 

“Please, Marcus, you’re hurting me—“

That wasn’t Voldemort. 

Draco sobbed. 

Harry all at once felt so guilty—this wasn’t his business, not at all—and realized what was going on. Why Draco was timider than Harry remembered, why he had been so sickly lately, his lack of response to Harry’s question about the worst fight they’d ever had—Marcus had hit him. Probably just after Harry had come to interview them. Poor Malfoy—he’d have to divorce Marcus now, and he must feel awful, so awful that someone he loved so much had done that…

But as Draco’s whimpers continued, Harry felt mostly bad for overhearing something that he’d never, in a million years, write about. Or should even know. So he shook Draco awake. 

Draco’s eyes shot open and he scrambled to the end of the bed, flattening himself against the headboard, eyes wide. After a second, he relaxed slightly, and said, “Hello, Harry. Sorry, I was sleeping.”

“Draco, there’s no point to it. I heard you talking.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened again, and he pressed himself further against the headboard. “What—what did you hear?”

It was pointless lying now. “I know Marcus hit you. Or did something. Sorry.” 

Draco looked down. “What? He never—“

“Draco, I can tell you’re lying.”

“I’m not!” “Yeah, you are. Sorry,” Harry said again, feeling like a prat. 

Draco took a deep breath. “Can you…” Draco bit his lip, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “Could you wait to write about it until I can talk to Marcus? Please?”

“Draco, I—“

“Please, Harry, you don’t—you don’t get it.”

“Draco, I wouldn’t write about it. That’s a huge misuse of my access into your life. I wouldn’t, really. But if you want to…talk…I’m here.” God, that sounded lame. 

And Draco burst into tears. 

“Hey, Draco, hey—it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay,” Harry said. What was there to say?  
Draco looked awful. On top of being pale as a ghost, now, and his cheeks sunken, his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, his face torn in anguish. He buried his face in his hands. “Why can’t I do anything right?” he moaned. 

That wasn’t right. 

“What?” Harry asked, bewildered. 

“Can’t even—you don’t get it,” Draco sobbed. “He’s—he’s such a good husband, he does everything, and I can’t even be good for him, always have to be a bad husband, can’t do a thing right,” he cried into splayed fingers. “Can’t do anything right.”

“Hey, Draco, that’s not true,” Harry responded, feeling helpless. “You’re a fantastic quidditch player, and from what I can tell…a good man. Marcus hit you. He’s the problem.”

“No,” Draco sobbed. “No, no, no…” he breathed heavily, trying to form words. “No, I was bad, if I wasn’t so bad, he wouldn’t have to do it.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. Marcus, that fucker. “That’s not true, Draco. No one deserves to be abused, especially not by the person they love.”

“He’s just trying to make me better,” Draco said,

“Draco, first of all, you’re not a bad person.” He was trying to sort through everything Malfoy was saying, but everything felt so sudden, and it had been so long since he hadn’t been the one in control of the direction of the conversation.

“You just don’t—“ 

“Draco, shut up for a second,” Harry insisted. He needed to explain this to Malfoy, needed to—

Draco instantly silenced with a flinch. 

Bile rose in Harry’s throat.

“Draco…how many times has Flint hit you?” 

“Only when I’m bad,” Draco responded. 

God, he sounded like a house-elf. 

“That’s not what I asked, Draco. How many times has he hit you?”

“I…” Draco hugged himself. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Harry said, taking a deep breath, running his hand through his hair. “Okay. You two have been together for what, five years? Married for four and a half? How long has he been hitting you for?”

“Um…four?” Draco responded, quietly. 

Harry almost threw up. “Draco, I need you to listen to me. Nobody, not you, not anybody else, deserves to be hit, especially not by their partner. And nothing Flint said about you is true. None of it. You’ve been nothing but a good husband and a good person and Flint is the problem. Not you. Not you, Draco.” Harry’s head was spinning.

Draco didn’t say anything. 

“Why didn’t you break up with him? Divorce him?” “I’m sorry,” Draco responded immediately. “I—“

“No, that’s not what I meant, Draco, you don’t have to apologize.” Harry sighed. “I just—why didn’t you leave? I’m just wondering.”

“I…he would have killed me. I think. I…I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Hey, hey,” Harry said, quietly, calmly. Inside, he was boiling. “Hey. Yes, you should. I care about you, Draco, I—“

“Why?” Draco asked.

“What?”

“Why?” Draco said again, a bit of his drawl coming back in, as if he were thinking, can this idiot not hear? 

“Because we’re…friends,” Harry finished lamely. 

“No, we’re not,” Draco responded. “We’ve never been friends. I don’t need your pity, Harry.” 

“It’s not pity,” Harry said. Draco scoffed. “And fine. We’ve never been friends. Why don’t we start now?”

“Great time to start a friendship.”

“Good as any,” Harry countered. 

“Fine. Friends,” Draco responded with a sniff. 

“Okay. I don’t let my friends be abused. So you’re coming to my house.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “I can’t, he’ll—“

“He won’t kill you. Draco, I don’t usually pull this card, but I defeated Voldemort. Do you really think that I’m going to let anyone hurt you?”

Draco shook his head. “But you shouldn’t have to—“

“Oh, stop with that, Malfoy. You’re right, I don’t have to. I want to. Now grab my hand, we’re getting the fuck out of here.”


	7. In Over His Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes Draco back to Grimmauld Place, and seeks help.

There had been a twist, and then everything went black. As Draco came to, he found himself in an old place that he vaguely recognized…Grimmauld Place? He must’ve passed out during apparition, but why…

Oh, right. This place had somehow gotten into Harry’s hands, hadn’t it.

Harry. Marcus. Oh, god, oh, god. There Harry was, leaning right over him.

“Draco, when was the last time you ate?” Harry asked. His voice was tender. Draco could’ve cried. _Don’t do that. It’s fucking annoying._

“Um…” Draco thought. “This morning, I guess.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, and helped him sit up against the wall. “What did you eat?”

Draco blushed.

“What?” Harry asked, seemingly oblivious. Was he really going to make Draco say it?

Whatever. “I gave Marcus a blowjob,” he said pointedly.

“That’s not what I—oh,” Harry cut himself off, and turned maroon. “I see.”

Draco nodded. Harry was a bit of an idiot.

“Okay, but that doesn’t count. When was the last time you ate _before_ that? And…cum doesn’t count, which I feel like should be obvious.” He wouldn’t look Draco in the face.

Draco sighed. “Monday?”

Harry choked out a cough, eyes wide. “ _Monday?”_ His eyes darkened. “What did Flint say? You could only eat cum?”

“I…my diet wasn’t going well, I kept breaking it. It’s not like he said that, I just—“

“Draco, that’s disgusting.” Harry said.

“I’m sorry—“

“No, ugh,” Harry said. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I mean is, that Flint would do that to you. _Flint_ is disgusting. Not you.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I…I don’t know,” Draco responded truthfully. “I’m still feeling a bit woozy.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Harry responded, and in one swift motion, picked him up bridal-style.

“You don’t need to—“

“Draco, it’s fine. You weigh nothing,” Harry sighed. “Really. I want you to think about every bad thing Flint said about you and toss it out. He was garbage. None of that was true.”

Harry didn’t even know him. If he did…well, he’d be singing a different tune.

Soon, they’d gotten to what looked like a master bedroom. Harry set him on the bed.

“Well,” Harry began. “It’s actually getting pretty late, and I’m going to want to turn in soon, so…do you need help getting out of those clothes?”

Harry pulled out his wand. Draco flinched. Harry sighed.

Draco made Harry sigh so much. He had to try harder to be good.

“Draco, I’m going to perform a nourishment charm on you. I’m sort of rubbish at them, but it’ll be better than nothing. Is that okay?”

Draco almost said something about being fat already, but then stopped himself. Harry wouldn’t like that. He had to be good. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” Harry said, and waved his wand a bit. After a moment, Draco felt a bit of energy flow through him, as if his blood had re-awoken to do its job again.

“Thank you,” Draco said.

“Anytime, Draco,” Harry responded. “Are you okay to go to bed in here now?”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I should be—I should be fine.”

“Okay. Please try to sleep, okay? You’re so sick.”

“Okay,” Draco said. He would try.

\-----------

Harry woke up in the middle of the night to crying.

It was the same haunting sound he’d heard earlier that day. God, god, god, Flint was such a _fucking—_ he had beaten Draco. Repeatedly. He had abused Draco, starved him, oh, god, when Draco had been talking, Harry had been trying so hard to keep his anger away, out of his eyes and his hands, itching to ball into fists. He’d known that if Draco saw it, it would scare him. But when he got to his room, he put _muffliato_ on the room and just screamed. Screamed, and punched the wall…No one deserved that shit. After he’d thrown up a few times, thrown up until he was heaving empty, and punched the wall again, he tried to go to bed, falling in a fitfull sleep filled with images of Flint, of Flint’s fists.

Of how much _bigger_ Flint was than Draco. Almost twice his weight. 

And now Draco was crying. Harry threw himself out of bed and ran to the master bedroom. Draco was lying much like he had before—tangled in sheets, sweaty, and so small, murmuring _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

“Draco, Draco,” Harry said, and shook him awake. “Draco, it’s just a nightmare.”

Draco’s startled eyes, after a moment, relaxed onto Harry’s face. “Did I wake you up?” Draco asked. The fear in his voice was palpable. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Draco, I don’t mind,” Harry said softly. “Um. Do you want—what do you need right now?”

Draco wiped his eyes; Harry followed the movement. Draco was crying.

“M’fine. Just being silly. You can go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“Really, Draco, it’s fine.” God, Draco was so small. Harry wondered if he would ever get over that. “I’m afraid I don’t have a dreamless sleep potion on hand. Is there anything else I can do for you?” If he was a healer, like Hermione…but with no discernable skills, Harry was utterly helpless, and he knew it more than ever now.

Draco’s eyes were hooded and fluttering, but he didn’t seem to be drifting in and out of sleep—more like in and out of nightmares. He pulled himself into a seated position, visibly wincing. “Can you…would you mind—do you have any perfume?”

“Perfume?” Harry would have laughed in any other circumstances. But he wasn’t laughing now. His head was racing for anything he had. “No, but—why do you need it?”

Draco curled into himself even further, tucking his knees under his chin. “I can smell him. Like he’s in here. He’s…all over me.”

Harry didn’t smell anything, but he had no doubt that Draco’s trauma would accentuate any small note of Marcus. “I have candles. A scented candle, I think, somewhere. I could light that.”

Draco didn’t look at him. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

Harry nodded. “You’re welcome, Draco. It’s no problem. I’ll be right back.”

He practically ran downstairs into the living room. There must be candles in here somewhere…Fleur had gotten one for him for Christmas, although he didn’t actually know what scent it was.

There. He read the label: _Amortentia._

Fuck. Count on Fleur to get him some shit like that.

Well, he had nothing else. And he was rubbish at sensory charms—he just had to hope there were smells Draco loved more than his abuser’s. He brought it upstairs quickly, set it on the bedside table, and lit it with a flick of his wand.

Draco, half-awake, craned towards the candle. “It smells like Hogwarts. How did you get Hogwarts in a scent, Harry?”

Thank god.

“Thank you,” Draco murmured, before curling up into sleep again. Harry watched him for a moment, then left, shutting the door quietly behind him. He leaned against the door for a moment, just staring into the darkness.

He…he had no idea how to do this. Maybe when he was seventeen, when he was still “Harry Potter”…but now he wasn’t that at all. He wasn’t a hero anymore, everyone knew it. What was he supposed to do?

Hermione would know. She must’ve covered at least a bit of this in her healer training.

For the second time that night, he ran downstairs, this time to hurriedly start a fire. He nearly got out the matches before he remembered that magic existed. Once it was lit, he through some flew powder on the fire. “Er…Hermione’s Granger’s house?” he said. The flames turned green and he saw, wavering, Hermione’s living room. “Hermione!” he shouted. “Hermione!” Normally, he would never wake Hermione up in the middle of the night but he was way, way out of his depth here. “Hermione!”

“Harry, what in hell?” Red hair pushed through the fire, soon followed by his ex-girlfriend’s face. “It’s the middle of the night. We’re both asleep.”

“I know, I just—Ginny, I need help.”

Ginny’s face changed immediately. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m fine. But it is urgent. I need to speak to Hermione.”

Ginny nodded. “I’ll go wake her up.”

She disappeared for a few minutes, and soon there were two heads in the fire. “It might be better if you floo over,” Harry said. “It might be a little while.” The heads nodded simultaneously, and a few minutes later, Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger were stepping through Harry’s fireplace and dusting themselves off.

“Alright, Harry,” Hermione said, taking a seat on his couch. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s about Draco,” he began.

Hermione stood up immediately. “Harry, you had better be shitting me right now. You did _not_ wake me up at _two_ in the _bloody_ morning to talk to me about whatever _conspiracy—_ “

“Shh!” Harry said hurriedly. “You’ll wake him!”

“Wake _who?”_ Hermione whisper-shouted. Ginny rested her hand softly on Hermione’s back and Hermione sat down.

“Malfoy. Draco. He’s…he’s sleeping upstairs,” Harry said. He could see Hermione working through the situation, the gears in her brain moving.

“He’s in some kind of trouble,” she said.

“It’s Flint, isn’t it?” Ginny asked. Harry looked at her.

“Yes. How did you know?” He asked.

“I guessed,” Ginny said with a grimace. “I run into the two every so often, at functions. For Quidditch players,” she clarified, at the look on Harry’s face. “Draco’s nice enough—a bit posh, but pleasant to talk to, always has a kind word—but there’s always been something off-putting about them. I thought it was maybe just the sight of Flint having feelings or something, but…I should have trusted my gut. He’s been hitting him, hasn’t he.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “He has. For years now. And I…he’s upstairs, and I don’t know what to do, or how to help him, and he’s scared. And I thought thatmaybe you went over some of this stuff in your training, Hermione.”

Hermione was blinking, rapidly. “Yes. Okay. We did an overview a while ago, so I can try to give you some key points. Definitely listening is a big one—don’t push him to talk, but if he is talking, that’s a good sign, and make sure he knows he’s being listened to. What else…he may try to rationalize the harm that’s been done to him, especially since it’s been going on for so long. Just make sure you’re not telling him that he’s imagining things, that there might be a misunderstanding…these are all excuses he might use for his abuser and you don’t want to re-enforce those ideas. It’s likely he hasn’t had a lot of control over his life for a while, so…he might get overwhelmed, but try to help him slowly learn to have that control again.”

Ginny put her hand on Hermione’s. “Harry, this is a lot. And…you have a tendency to…feel responsible for other people. At the end of the day, you’re a person, too, and you need to make sure that you don’t feel like what Flint has done is your fault. It’s great that you’re taking care of Draco, but you need to take care of yourself, too, alright?”

Harry nodded. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I just need to know what to do.”

“Do you have any questions?” Hermione asked.

Harry thought for a moment. “He’s been having bad dreams.”

Hermione looked up sharply. “Did you give him dreamless sleep?”

Harry shook his head. “Haven’t got any.”

“Good,” Hermione said immediately. “That’ll just make him repress it, and that’s not good in the long term.” She bit her lip.

“Go on, Hermione.”

“Harry, there are a couple more things you should know. First, he might want to go back. To Flint, that is.”

“What?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. “Flint has conditioned him to think that he needs him. So yes, he might want to go back. You should try to…dissuade him from that, as much as you can, although you shouldn’t use force.”

Harry clenched his fists. Draco wouldn’t want to go back, would he?

“Also.” Hermione wasn’t looking at Harry.

“Yeah?” Harry asked.

“Harry, if Flint’s been abusing him, it’s likely he’s been…assaulting him, too. Sexually.”

Harry stared.

“I’m not saying definitively that it happened, but even if it didn’t, Draco definitely felt beholden to Flint in a way that makes consent…tricky. And if consent is tricky, then that means that there’s no consent.” She took a deep breath. “So just…be wary of that. Again, don’t push him to talk. But you may not want to look so flabbergasted if he does end up telling you that.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Harry replied weakly. He couldn’t look at either of them. God, if Flint had assauled…he was twice Draco’s size. _Draco’s got a nice ass, don’t you think?_ Flint’s words came back to him, and he sat on his hands so he wouldn’t clench them.

“You sure you’re alright, Harry?” Ginny said.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Harry said. “I just haven’t done this in a while. Er…helped.”

Hermione nodded. “Harry, if you need anything at all, just let us know. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks, Hermione. And Ginny. You can…you can go back to bed now. Floo powder’s on the mantel in a little pot.”

Hermione nodded and she and Ginny went to the fire. Hermione looked at him one last time before leaving, and said, “Love you, Harry.”

“Love you too,” he said, and the two disappeared.

He curled up on the sofa. What was he going to do?


	8. Another Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wakes up in a house that isn't his.

Draco woke up in a strange bed.

The walls of this room were red—not like his, pale green. The bed wasn’t his and Marcus’s four-poster…then he remembered. Harry. Grimmauld place.

It seemed early but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, so he got up, stretched, and slowly made his way downstairs. It had been years since he’d been in Grimmauld place—the Blacks (excluding Sirius, of course, whom he’d never met) had died when he was very young, and so his memories of the place were only from when he was under the age of three. But he found the staircase alright, and from there the kitchen.

It was a complete mess. Which was no surprise, considering the state of his office. First of all, there were dishes piled in the sink, almost overflowing—some of them still with bits of food on them—not to mention the state of the counters. Draco found a rag and some dishsoap and set to work. He attacked the dishes first, and, once he’d found out where they went, put them back in their proper places. Of course, in putting them away, he’d discovered the handles of the cabinets were _sticky—_ really, what did Harry do, walk around with his hands covered in jam—so he cleaned those, and then went for the counters.

“Now,” he said to himself, “What does Harry Potter have in his fridge?” He opened up the fridge and, as he’d expected, it was pretty sparse. A few eggs, a few vegetables, a bit of cheese, and not much else. There was bread in the bread box, though, and—thank Merlin—coffee.

He set to making breakfast, which would have to be an omelet with the limited supplies. As he cooked, he tried to remember the events of yesterday. He’d been pretty out of it—the hunger was starting to get to him in a way that it hadn’t often before—although he was feeling much better now, which he suspected was the result of Harry’s nourishment charm. He doubted he’d be able to stay here for long, but it was nice to be able to have a bit of time to recover before…whatever was next.

There. The omelet was done. He looked at the clock—it wasn’t too early anymore, around nine. Later than Marcus liked to wake up, anyways, so he thought maybe Harry’d be okay with it.

He went to go upstairs and bring Harry breakfast when a sound coming from the living room stopped him. He poked his head in.

Sure enough, there was Harry, snoring away on the couch. But that was odd. Draco knew, for a fact, that there were plenty of bedrooms in Grimmauld place. And the room he was staying in didn’t seem to be Harry’s—it had no personal affects, for one, or photographs, or anything else that Draco would expect a sentimentalist such as Harry to hang all over the walls of his room.

He walked over to Harry hesitantly. “Harry?” he said loudly.

Harry said nothing.

“Harry.” he said louder.

More snoring ensued.

He shook Harry gently. “Harry, wake up,” he said.

Harry groaned.”Mione?” he asked, voice heavy with sleep.

“No, it’s—it’s Draco,” Draco responded. Maybe he shouldn’t have woken Harry up—after all, Harry had never asked him to. Maybe he wanted to sleep in…suddenly, Draco remembered that he’d woken Harry up in the middle of the night. Merlin.

Harry sat up, though, groggily. “Draco,” he said. “Good morning.” He rubbed his eyes, yawned. “What’re…what’re you doing up?”

Draco looked at him uncertainedly. “I—I made you breakfast. And coffee.”

Harry looked at him. “You didn’t need to do that, Draco.”

“Ah.” Draco could’ve hit himself. Stupid. “Well, I was awake, anyways. So.” He held the plate out to Harry. “And don’t worry. I brought myself a plate.” He had thought that was what Harry had wanted, and, from Harry’s look of approval, he felt he’d done the right thing.

Harry looked at it, shrugged, and took it. “Looks good,” he said, and dug in. “Mmmm. It is good.” He grinned.

Draco watched Harry eat his breakfast. He picked at his own, eating about half of it. After Harry had finished, Draco cleared his throat. “I hope I didn’t dislocate you from your bedroom.”

Harry looked at him, confused. Draco looked pointedly at the couch.

‘Oh, no,” Harry said. “Me falling asleep on the couch was a pure accident, don’t worry. You’re sleeping in one of the many guest rooms.”

“That’s good.” Draco was relieved. “I noticed you put me in one with red walls. Trying to incite an old rivalry, are we?”

Harry laughed. “Actually, that would be Sirius’s doing. The place was left to him, and one day, he painted all the rooms red. _Better than spitting on his mother’s grave,_ I believe he said.”

Draco grinned. “I’m glad to hear I’m not the only one who knows how to hold a house grudge.”

“Yes, well. Sirius came from a family of all Slytherins. I can’t imagine being the only Gryffindor was easy.”

Draco ducked his head. “Sorry,” he said. He shouldn’t have compared himself to Harry’s godfather.

“No, no,” Harry said. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I was just thinking out loud, really. So, then, you’ve still got a modicum of house pride?”

“A modicum?” Draco grinned. “Slytherin is the best house there is.”

“I’m afraid both I and our mutual friend Margo would disagree,” Harry countered.

“Margo? Did you speak with her again?” Then it dawned on him. God, how hadn’t he realized before. “Actually, Harry, I’ve got to go,” he said, hurriedly, and put his plate down.

“Wait—what?” Harry said. “Slow down. Where are you going?”

“Er—I’ve got to go home. I can’t stay. I’m sorry. Thank you for the—“

He saw Harry’s eyes darken and he kept himself from shuddering. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Harry said.

Draco looked at him. “Harry, I really have to go. Marcus has noticed I’m missing already, and he’s going to—“

“Draco, he’ll hurt you if you back to him!” Harry said. His voice was louder than usual and Draco hated it hated it but he had to be normal.

He felt himself shrink back anyways. “I know,” he said quietly, and Harry softened.

“Then don’t go back,” Harry said, his voice quieter. “Draco, you really shouldn’t. You don’t deserve that.”

“Harry, I have to. He knows about Margo. He’s _met_ her. If he…if he goes after her, I don’t know…what I’ll do.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He appeared to be thinking. Draco couldn’t help his hands from shaking…if Marcus hurt Margo it would be all his fault and oh, god, she’d be so scared—

“No, Draco, it’s okay.” Harry said suddenly.

“What?” Draco breathed. Harry sounded so certain.

“It’s September 2nd. Margo left for Hogwarts yesterday, there’s no way he’ll be able to get to her there.”

Draco sat back down. He’d barely realized he’d been standing. “Oh,” he breathed. Margo was safe. Margo was safe. “That’s good. Sorry for panicking.”

“Totally understandable. No need to apologize,” Harry said. “You asked if I’ve spoken to her again since that first time, and yes, I have. She showed me the letters you wrote to her.”

Draco put his head in his hands. “I’m an idiot,” he said.

“What?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head. Harry was going to find out eventually. “You know, I supported that home for years…ever since I started making money, really, so around six or seven years at least. Margo came there five years ago…she was only eight, but already a raging lesbian.” He chuckled for a moment, but there wasn’t really anything funny, not at all. “Well, her father found out, and sent her to a conversion camp…when that didn’t work, he tried to beat it out of her. She performed a ridiculous amount of accidental magic and ended up at the shelter.” He sighed. “I…I mean, you’ve met her, Harry. She’s adorable, and wickedly clever for her age, and she was asking all these questions about flying, and I started looking at her as…as my own kid, which was stupid. I used to want kids, though, and kind of thought I’d adopt her. Really thought I’d adopt her, for a time.”

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“Well, Marcus asked where all my money was going, and learned about the home. And he said maybe we should adopt a kid from there, and I said yeah, sounds great, and was excited. I told him about Margo. He hadn’t…beat me, yet. And then he started, a little while later. And then he brought it up again, and I was naïve enough to take him to visit her, and…and I saw him with her and I knew it was wrong. I vomited, actually, thinking about him being her father. She’s already gone through so much, and…so I told Marcus I wasn’t ready for kids yet. And he said that was ridiculous, I was supporting a whole shelter. And he made me stop funding it after a while of my excuses, or we’d adopt Margo, and…oh, god.” He shook his head.

“It’s not your fault. You were just trying to protect her.”

“Not always,” Draco said. “I…I wrote her letters, after that. All the way up until the beginning of her first year. I knew how damaging it would be to her if I just…left. I was so careful, I was so…but then Marcus found out about that, too, and it hurt so bad, and…” He hated himself. “He didn’t threaten her at all. I was just being a coward. I could’ve kept writing.”

Harry sighed. Draco wanted to kick himself. Why was he always making that happen?

“You’re not a coward, Draco,” he said gently. “You knew he would hurt you if you’d written again. That’s Marcus’s fault, not yours.”

Draco knew that wasn’t true. Whatever the punishment, he could’ve kept writing. “Okay,” he said, though, because he was pretty sure Harry was just going to refute anything he said otherwise.

Harry stood up. “Margo’s okay, Draco, really. She’s still bright and friendly and, last I checked, very excited for Hogwarts. She misses you, but…we can fix that, in time. Here, let me take your plate,” he finished.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Are you just going to put them both in a pile on the sink?”

Harry shrugged.

“No, I won’t have that,” Draco said, and followed Harry to the kitchen.

Upon entering, Harry stopped short. “Draco,” he said slowly, and turned around.

Draco knew that tone. That slow turn. Harry was mad, Harry was angry, he’d done something wrong—maybe he’d cleaned it wrong or something, he couldn’t think what, but no one could say his name that slowly and not be about to—

Harry stepped closer to him. He felt himself flinch, he couldn’t look at him, he—

“Draco, look at me.”

He didn’t want to. He really didn’t want to see the anger in his eyes, but he’d rather do that than go against a direct order. So he looked.

Harry’s eyes weren’t angry at all. They were sad. He’d set down the plates. “Draco, did you clean my kitchen?”

“Yes,” Draco said hurriedly, glad he’d been given a chance to explain himself, “And if I’ve done something wrong, I’m sorry—this is the way Marcus likes it and I didn’t think to do anything different but—“

Harry shook his head. “You don’t need to clean my kitchen, Draco.”

“I know,” Draco said, although he wasn’t sure he did know. “But you’re…you’ve given me a place to sleep, and you’re being so kind, and I’ve got to repay you somehow.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry said. “You just…rest. You’ve done enough cleaning to last yourself a lifetime, I’m sure.” He frowned suddenly. “Draco, do you really believe what you said about vacuum cleaners?”

Draco squinted. “Er…what did I say about vacuum cleaners?”

“That spells don’t really do the job. That the muggle way of cleaning is better.”

Draco laughed. “Oh, obviously not. I mean, magic gets rid of every possible bit of dust, and the vacuum never gets the bits underneath things.”

“Then why were you using a vacuum cleaner? Did Marcus make you clean things the muggle way?

“No,” Draco said. “He’s not like that. He just didn’t like me having a wand when he wasn’t around, so I didn’t have much other way to do it.”

“He took away your wand?”

“Yeah, typically. I mean, he has it now.” Draco shrugged.

“He has it—so you don’t have your wand? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry,” Draco said quickly. “I—“

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harry replied. “I just…it seems important.”

Draco shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to it. I did without one for some time during the war, too—not that I’m blaming you at all for that, of course not, I’m glad you got my wand—but I don’t…need it desperately, for anything at the moment, so. Just didn’t occur to me to tell you, I suppose.”

“Would you like to borrow mine?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head, although clearly this was just a courtesy. Harry wouldn’t actually _give_ him his _wand,_ if push came to shove. “As I said, I don’t need one at the moment for anything. If I do, I’ll ask you, though,” he assured Harry.

“Okay. As long as you be sure to do that,” Harry said slowly. “Er…I know Grimmauld place isn’t terribly interesting, and one can feel a bit shut in here, but that really doesn’t mean you’ve got to clean the place. I’ve got books, and…board games? And I can get you anything you need, or you can come with me, or…”

“I wouldn’t mind a book,” Draco replied.

That perked Harry up, as he thought it would. “Oh, excellent. I have got loads of those. What kind do you want? Mystery? Coming-of-age? I’ve got a bit of non-fiction, though that’s not my favorite. Did you like _The Goldfinch?_ ”

“I…didn’t get a chance to read it,” Draco said, and hoped Harry wouldn’t follow up.

He didn’t. “That’s alright. It’s a bit of a tome. Here, why don’t you come to the library and we can look around?”

Draco nodded, and followed Harry to a room he remembered to be the ancestry room. When he was little, it had always scared him—all the little faces on the wall, all the blast marks. The one next to his mother’s name always used as a warning. But the room was completely changed. It was lined, wall-to-wall, with bookshelves. The old, greyish carpeting had been replaced with one of a deep red, and where there weren’t books—which was not very much of the room, to be fair—cozy leather chairs sat in a circle. A little firepit sat in the center of the circle, with flames that, with all these books around, Draco hoped were fake. It was beautiful.

“Harry, this is…this is lovely.”

“You like it?” Harry grinned. “I designed it after the Gryffindor common room. Or, I guess, the Gryffindor common room after a Hermione Granger invasion.”

Draco laughed. “Yeah. I can see that. Didn’t this use to be the, er…the room with the tapestry?”

Harry nodded. “Sirius hated this room. But even after we got his mother’s portrait off the wall—it used to scream and scream, it was terrible—the tapestry here wouldn’t come off. So I just covered it up instead,” he shrugged. “It’s still there, but at least its not…”

“Visible,” Draco finished. “Clever.” Then he realized. “You mean to tell me that my face is somewhere in here still, covered up with a bookshelf?”

Harry laughed at that. “I imagine so. He’d just better hope he’s in an interesting section, I suppose. Speaking of sections, what kind of book would you like? I mean, I’ve got all the greats, if there’s something you’ve been meaning to read—Melville, Austen, Woolf, some Stephen King, Dickens—“

“No Dickens, Draco said quickly. Harry nodded.

“I’ve always thought he was a bit overrated, to tell you the truth. Let’s see…I’ve also got Tartt’s other novels, although Goldfinch really is the best one to start with. I’ve got assorted muggle fantasy books—it’s pretty entertaining to read them when you know what mermaids and such are _actually_ like. Most of those books would go flying out the window if they saw how big their fangs are, for one. Er…Salman Rushdie?”

Draco shrugged helplessly. “To be honest, I don’t read much. At least, I’ve been so busy with Quidditch and everything that lately, I haven’t had much time to.”

Harry nodded. “No, that’s good. That means I’ve got plenty you haven’t read. Let’s see…have you read _Orlando_? By Virginia Woolf?”

“No,” Draco replied.

“Perfect.” Harry grinned. “Here.” He grabbed a book from the shelf and passed it to Draco. “You can start with that. I think it’s her best, although _To the Lighthouse_ is really beautiful as well.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. “I…that’s very nice of you.”

Harry half-smiled. “Don’t sound too surprised.”

“You did blackmail me,” Draco reminded him.

“That I did…” Harry said, frowning. “Sorry about that. I…my mind healer says I get into these places, where I…I can’t let go of something.”

Draco nodded. “To be fair, last time you thought I was up to something, I was.” Draco didn’t like to think about that night in the tower. But it had happened.

“That’s what I said to Hermione and Ron!” Harry exclaimed.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been discussing me with Granger and Weasley?”

Harry blushed. “Well…I thought you were up to something.”

“I’m glad you did,” Draco said quietly. Harry smiled. 

“The books good with you, though?” he asked.

 _Orlando._ “It looks great. Thank you.”

Harry nodded. “Just let me know if you’d like another.”


	9. Going Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco spends all day in the library; Harry plots.

Harry didn’t see Draco for the rest of the day, because he spent the whole day sitting in the library reading, only stopping to apologize fervently when Harry had brought him lunch. Pride had swelled in Harry at first; he’d built that library himself, color scheme and all, (although it was, really, just a rip-off of the old common room), and to see someone enjoying it made him happy. Of course, Hermione had expressed her love of the room countless times, but Harry was pretty sure that was due more to her obsession with libraries than his meagre interior design skills.

However, by hour five, Harry was beginning to get antsy. He’d poked his head into the library a half-hour ago and Draco had been curled up next to the firepit, reading his book. Harry hadn’t interrupted, because he had just looked so peaceful _._

Instead, he had spent the time since then pacing his room, talking every once and a while to the portraits on the wall. Donning his cape and playing the hero, sweeping Draco out of his abuser’s home and giving him a safe place to stay, had been all well and good. He’d known that was the right thing to do, it was fairly self-explanatory. Now, though, he was less certain. Was it bad that Draco was spending all of his time shut up in one room? Or had he simply lost track of time reading _Orlando,_ as one could do? He tried to think of what Hermione had said. _It’s likely he hasn’t had a lot of control over his life._ Maybe Draco just didn’t know what he could do. Hermione had said that Draco might need some time to get accustomed to his new-found freedom—which made Harry want to throw up every time he thought of it, because, really, Draco wasn’t a house elf—so maybe leaving him alone to his devices all the time wasn’t the best course of action.

“Should I…do something with him?” Harry asked the crooked-nosed lady on the wall, whose real name was about eight words long, and so who he’d affectionately nicknamed “Karen”. A nickname she did not love.

Karen looked down at him piously, pursing her pomegranate-stained lips. “How should I know? I’m not familiar with the boy. You could do some kind of ancient blood ritual, I suppose. My husband always did that to cheer me up after a bad day.”

“An ancient…what the hell, Karen?” Harry stopped pacing. These portraits were weird, but he couldn’t believe anyone actually performed ancient blood rituals to cheer each other up.

“Don’t call me that. And I was very clearly being sardonic. How should I know what you should do with him? I’m made of oil paint, for Merlin’s sake.”

Harry grinned. “In one of our moods again today, are we? What’s happened, then?”

The portrait rolled her cold eyes. “If you must know, Eduardius and Licorus keep dueling in Hesper’s frame, and I had to spend all morning breaking up the boys’ argument and then talking Hesper down from committing murder-suicide. Which is quite a difficult task, considering her propensity for it.” Hesper, Harry recalled, had died by murder-suicide. “So you can see, I’m sure, why I’m not particularly in the mood to do your emotional labor as well.”

“Emotional labor? Been listening to those psychology books I’ve been reading to you, then?” Harry grinned. Karen just grumbled.

After getting rid of Phineus Nigellus and Walburga as fast as he could, his initial plan had been to get rid of the rest of the portraits, too. But when he was cleaning the house of pixies and boggarts and all the other shit it was infested with, he’d gotten accustomed to their running commentary. Made friends with a couple of them, Karen being his favorite—though Dennis down the hall was good for a laugh, too. Some of them had even become a bit less of pureblood supremacists than they had been at the beginning of Harry’s stay (though maybe that was just Harry learning to tune the slurs out).

Karen’s voice cut off his pacing, which he hadn’t even realized he’d started doing again.

“Take him to dinner, or something.”

Harry stopped. Glanced at her. “Like on a date?” he asked.

“No, you fairy.” Harry winced at that. So, yes, the portraits still had some issues. At the look on his face, though, Karen rolled her eyes. “I didn’t mean that. If you want to have relations with men, I won’t argue you out of it. Just _warn_ a girl!”

Ah, yes. Harry had woken her up to unpleasant circumstances in the past. And her rattling scream at the sight of his date’s bare ass could be a real mood killer. Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be picking up any guys any time soon.

“Not a date,” Karen picked back up again. “Just take him somewhere out of this house. Let him pick his order, or something, if you want him to have free will or whatever you lot are on about these days. I’ll tell you, back when I was head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, we didn’t care much for free will. Obedience. That’s where everything comes together. Everyone working together for the common good, everyone with like-minded goals, serving the family…”

“Oh, shut it, you communist,” Harry said with a snort.

“Fascist, darling, fascist. You couldn’t be further from the truth.”

Harry thought about that. Dinner. That could be good. And at least that way, Draco wouldn’t feel obligated to cook for him like he had this morning. And he had been looking to go to that new muggle place that had opened up nearby.

“Thanks, Karen!” he called, and bounded downstairs to talk to Draco, ignoring the portrait’s shouts of protest at the name.

True to form, Draco was still curled up in the library. His socked feet—floral socks, Harry observed with a grin, which Draco must have worn here but he hadn’t noticed before— were perched on the edge of the chair and his arms were wrapped around his knees so that the book was resting on his shins. He’d made it more than halfway through _Orlando,_ and Harry, embarrassingly enough, found himself excited at the prospect of discussing it with him.

“Draco?” he called softly, poking his head in through the door.

Draco looked up, startled. “Oh, hello, Harry. Do you need help with something?”

“I was actually wondering if you’d like to go to dinner,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair.

Draco cocked his head. “Like, a—“

“No,” Harry said quickly. “Not a date. Just dinner.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Like a restaurant, I was going to say,” he smirked. “But glad to hear how terrified you are at the prospect.”

Harry could have died right there. On the spot. And he wished he had, instead of what he did: stumbled through a few words and then changed the subject. Really, as a journalist, he should be better at _talking,_ shouldn’t he? “I…” he could feel his cheeks blush bright red. “Well. Glad that’s sorted, then. A restaurant, yes. There’s one downtown that’s just opened that I’ve been meaning to go to. Would you like to?”

Draco looked at him carefully, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not.”

“It’s muggle, mind,” Harry said. That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?

“That’s fine,” Draco shrugged. “It’s not as if the food is any different.” He frowned for a moment. Harry wished, not for the first time, that he could read minds.

“Something wrong?” he asked, trying to sound casual and failing epically.

Draco shook his head idly. “No, it’s alright. I just…is the place nice?”

Harry bit his lip. He didn’t want Draco to feel beholden to him—at least any more than he already did for Harry providing him with basic human decency. “I’ve got oodles of money, Draco, it’s really not a problem.”

Draco smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Actually, that’s not…I just haven’t anything to wear.” He grimaced. “Merlin, I sound like a girl.”

Well, that was easy enough. Though he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it before. “You can borrow some of my clothes, it’s fine.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Your clothes, Harry? Have you seen yourself? Broad shoulders and the like? I’ll look like a kid who’s been trying on his father’s clothes.”

The image of kid-Draco trying on Lucius Malfoy’s clothes gave Harry a laugh. “Er…” he said, trying not to chuckle out loud. He was pretty sure Draco would be insulted at that. “Well, we’ll have to go shopping, at some point, or we could…” Go back to Marcus and Dracos’ house, Harry finished in his head, but Draco would most definitely not be accompanying him on that trip. Either way, that wouldn’t happen tonight. “I might have some of Sirius’s things around. He was slim like you.”

Draco looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to impose—“

Harry waved him off. “He doesn’t need them anymore. He’d probably be right furious if he found out any of his things were going to a Black—you are a Black, aren’t you?—but he’d think you’re alright, I bet.”

“Thank you, then.” Draco smiled. “And yes, I am a Black. Better side than the Malfoys.”

Harry looked at him curiously. “I won’t lie. They both seem generally pretty rotten to me.”

Draco shrugged. “Yes, I suppose they are. But there are some excellent characters on the Black side. Your Sirius, for one. Andromeda. Nymphadora. My mother. Even Bellatrix—mind you, she was terrible, absolutely god-fuck terrible, but she did have style. The Malfoys, on the other hand…they’re a spineless lot. There isn’t one of them that’s remotely interesting.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Your father?”

“Any flair he had in his personality, he stole from my mother.”

Harry laughed at that. Yeah, Draco was a momma’s boy.

“Good to know. Here, follow me, I can show you where I keep Sirius’s old clothes.”

Draco stood up and stretched. Harry could _swear_ he heard bones cracking. He laughed. “Been sitting for a while, then?”

Draco scowled. “It’s not my fault you’ve constructed the comfiest room known to man.”

And well. Didn’t that just bring a smile to Harry’s face.

The two made their way upstairs, Harry taking the stairs two at a time (as he always did), Draco primly following in a way only Draco Malfoy could. Soon enough, the musty smell of attic was upon them.

“I come up here every once and a while to make sure there’s no moths or anything. But a few charms usually do the work of taking care of his things, so…” Harry shrugged. “I don’t have much reason to come up here otherwise.”

Draco ducked his head. “Are you sure you want to lend—“

“Yes,” Harry replied firmly. “You’ll get better use out of it than I’ll ever, anyways, and I’m sure Sirius wouldn’t have wanted his clothes to go to waste. I seem to remember him calling them fabulous on more than one occasion, though, so I’m not sure what you’ll find up there. Be warned.”

“Are you coming with?” Draco looked at him curiously.

Harry looked at the attic. He wanted to say yes—he didn’t like leaving Draco alone, didn’t want him to get anxious and do something like start cleaning everything in sight—but he wasn’t sure he could take going up there right now. “Ah…I’ll just stay here, if you don’t mind.”

A knowing look passed over Draco’s eyes. “Yes, of course. I’ll just be a minute, then.”

“Take your time,” Harry replied, and settled himself against the wall beside the door. Draco disappeared into the attic.

Harry tried to remember Sirius’s clothes, but the only image of Sirius he could conjure was in that striped brown suit jacket he always wore. Harry seemed to remember he had a propensity for velvet blazers. Harry wondered idly what Draco would come out wearing. Hopefully not the striped brown suit.

He didn’t have to wonder for long, however, because after a moment Draco came out wearing a light blue suit, complete with a waistcoat and everything. It was nearly the exact same color as his eyes, and fit him like a glove.

Which should have been a punch to the stomach, considering Sirius had bought that suit after spending twelve years starving in Azkaban, but Harry couldn’t really think about that right now because he was too busy thinking about how _hot_ Draco looked.

Draco broke the silence. “Is it okay? I can wear something else if you don’t want me to wear this, or…sorry, I wasn’t sure what—“

“No, no,” Harry said quickly, realizing he’d been staring. “It’s perfect. I don’t think he wore that one much, actually. He looked better in warm colors. Couldn’t quite pull of cooler tones like you can.” And he hadn’t meant to say that. That was embarrassing. Why had he said that?

Draco just smirked, though. “Well, thank you. He had good taste. Even if he didn’t know his skin tone. I can’t wear this with you wearing that, though,” he said, eyeing Harry’s ratty tee-shirt.

No, he couldn’t, could he? Not with Draco looking so…

“Right. I’ll just…yeah, I’ll go change. I’ll see you in a moment.”

He mentally kicked himself as he walked back to his room, his blush deepening all the while as he thought about what he’d said. _Idiot._ Draco Malfoy wasn’t _fit._ Draco Malfoy was Draco goddamn Malfoy.

Although, of course, thousands of teenage witches who collected photographs of the famous seeker to hang on their walls and stare at dreamily would probably disagree. But he wasn’t a teenage girl. And he _didn’t_ think Draco Malfoy was fit. Not even in a light blue suit that brought out his eyes and his pale skin and highlighted his cheekbones…oh, Merlin.

As soon as he’d shut the door behind him, he muttered, “Get it together, Potter.”

“Have you got your date, then?” Karen’s voice called from behind him.

“It’s not a date,” Harry growled.

Karen raised an eyebrow. Something clicked in the back of his mind—yes, she was a relative of Draco’s through and through, and those haughty facial expressions just proved it. “I was only kidding. What bee’s in your bonnet, then?”

Harry groaned. “I don’t think you really want to hear it, Karen.”

Karen rolled her eyes. “Your life is as close as I can get to entertainment. Don’t forget, I’m stuck on this wall for _eternity._ Now, tell me, what’s gone wrong for poor Potter now? Anything particularly juicy?”

“Nothing. Just…” Harry sighed. “Draco looks quite fit, is all. And _don’t_ say anything about me being a fairy, that’s really not appropriate in the 21st century, you know.”

“Well, I’m not _from_ the 21st century,” Karen sniffed. “So you find the boy attractive, yes? Why don’t you ask him out? I do love a good romance.”

Romance. Harry choked. “It’s Malfoy! I’m haven’t got a _crush_ or anything, I just said he’s fit! Merlin, Karen!”

Karen rolled her eyes. “This is why arranged marriages work _so_ much better, darling. I’m telling you, I could swing something—talk through my other portrait—I know several very eligible pureblood girls. Some who may not even mind your sexual proclivities so long as you buy them nice things.”

Harry chuckled. “Yes, Karen, that’s exactly what I want. A wife who secretly resents me for being gay but deals with it because I’ve got money. How do you know the answers to _all_ my problems?”

“Oh, and what do you think are the answers to your problems? Lying to yourself about having a wee bit of a crush on the boy you just dropped everything in your life to help?”

Harry groaned. “It’s not like that, Karen. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, being evil and all.”

“I am not evil! I simply have an understanding of the greater good, something you seem to lack entirely—“

“I’ve heard that one before,” Harry grumbled, thinking of Dumbledore.

Dumbledore. That was funny. He wondered what the old man would say to what he was doing now. _With great power comes great responsibility,_ probably, or some other inspirational quote that sounded nice until you realized it meant you had to do something difficult.

“Anyways, he’s looking fit so I’ve got to wear something nice as well,” Harry finished his thought, looking in his closet. Why did he only own tee-shirts and jeans? 

“To impress him?”

“Yes. No! Argh, I hate you so much,” Harry said, kicking his dresser then hopping on one foot in pain.

Karen just laughed. Harry hopped back to his closet and pulled out a black suit.

“This will be fine, I expect,” he sighed, and changed into it. He looked in the mirror and, at seeing the rowdy mess he called hair, took his wand to his head in an attempt to clean up, which of course didn’t work because that _never_ worked.

Ah well. He brushed his hands over his suit and went back to where he’d left Draco. This would have to do, he supposed.


	10. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco go to dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone! thanks for reading! i hope you're all doing well! just to warn you, Draco thinks some things about consent in this chapter that are NOT true. Harry'll set him right eventually, but for a bit it's Draco and those thoughts and i wanted to make it clear that he's got a fucked up idea of consent that is not actually how consent works.

Draco wasn’t blind.

He’d seen the way Harry’d looked at him when he’d walked out in the blue suit. And he couldn’t really be upset, because that was his intention, wasn’t it? He liked looking good. He liked feeling eyes on him. He liked feeling _wanted._ The best days with Marcus were when he’d dressed up and they’d gone out together. Except, of course, when someone made a pass at Draco, which would always end up with Marcus angry at him for attracting the unwanted attention. But mainly, they were good nights—nights where Marcus was proud of him, and happy to be his husband.

So sue him, he wanted attention. Everyone wanted attention. And he wanted attention from Harry. So what? Harry Potter was an attractive guy, all broad shoulders and curly hair and tanned skin.

Even better in that suit. Draco had had to keep his eyes from raking over Harry when he’d walked out of his room, even if the style was a bit too old to be fashionable and a bit too new to be vintage, even if Harry would look better if he wore a colored shirt underneath instead of the white one which made him look a bit too much like an upscale waiter. It fit him well. He looked _good._

Except Draco had to keep himself from showing that he thought that. Because now he knew Harry thought he was attractive. And the guy was probably enough of a chivalry-obsessed Gryffindor not to try anything, but if Harry knew he was interested—if he knew Draco _wanted_ it—well, he couldn’t really be expected to keep his needs to himself then, could he. So Draco tempered his reaction, even if Harry did look ridiculously fit. Trained his eyes on Harry’s face.

“There, that’s better,” he said. “Much more presentable.”

Harry frowned slightly. Good. He’d read it as as much of a rejection as Draco had intended it. He quickly smiled, though. “You ready? We can’t apparate from here, but we can side-along once we’ve left Grimmauld Place.”

Draco grimaced. He hated side-along.

“Or we can walk,” Harry said quickly, clearly picking up on Draco’s expression. “I’m just not sure you’re in the best shape to right now.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I am an internationally renowned Quidditch player, you know. Not an anemic Victorian child who’s contracted tuberculosis.” That was too harsh. “Side along is fine,” he added quickly, and hoped he wouldn’t throw up this time.

“You sure?” Harry asked.

Draco nodded swiftly, not looking at Harry because when he cocked his head and opened his eyes wide like that he only looked more attractive. “Yes, now let’s go. I’m hungry.” He began to walk downstairs, and Harry bounded down ridiculously beside him. Really, this guy was like an overgrown puppy. Once they’d made it outside, Harry stuck his arm out. Draco put his arm on Harry’s and they spun away.

Draco was being squeezed very tight, and everything was black, and he couldn’t breathe, his eyeballs were being forced into the back of his head and there were hands around his neck, he couldn’t breathe, everything was going black and where was he—

The world came back into focus. He was in an alleyway. Muggle London. Restaurant. Harry Potter. Right.

He couldn’t remember apparition before Marcus—had it always felt like being choked to death, like being held down?—but he always forgot how unpleasant it was now, now that darkness and not being able to breathe had a very specific meaning attached to them that had nothing to do with going from one place to another and everything to do with his husband. He’d done something wrong. What had he done wrong?

Alleyway. Muggle London. Dinner. Harry Potter, who was now looking at Draco as if his ears had climbed off the sides of his head and up his nostrils.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, and when Harry opened his mouth to speak, Draco beat him to it. “Really. Just don’t like apparition.”

“Noted,” Harry said, and gestured out of the alleyway. “The restaurant’s right around the corner.”

Draco brushed himself off—why Harry had had to apparate them into a dusty alleyway when they were both wearing nice suits was beyond him—and followed.

Sure enough, the restaurant was right around the corner. Draco raised an eyebrow at the sign above the door. “MCKN? That’s not even a word. Just letters.” He should have known Harry would be fond of these hip new places. Everything in there was probably going to be served deconstructed or as a fusion or something. 

“Just because you don’t know what something means doesn’t mean it doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said, then grinned. “I just said mean a couple too many times, didn’t I?”

Draco smirked. “Don’t try to sound like Dumbledore, Harry, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Well, regardless, this place is supposed to be good. So don’t worry. My sources are excellent,” he said, and pushed open the door, leaving Draco to follow.

The ceilings of the restaurant were low and the lighting was mainly candlelight, making for a sort of rustic, romantic ambience, which was only increased by the fact that they’d gone down a few stairs to get into the restaurant—it was partially underground. The tables were dark polished oak, which Draco respected, although there were no tablecloths, which he didn’t. From the doorway, he glanced at people’s plates. One person had a steak, another had some kind of salad. Okay, he could work with this.

They stopped at the booth. A smartly-dressed hostess looked at the two of them. “Table for two?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “We’ve got a reservation, actually. Potter.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Potter. Right this way,” she said lightly, and guided them to a table in the corner of the room. Draco was glad for that—the middle of the restaurant was so noisy he was sure they wouldn’t be able to carry a conversation. At least this way they’d be able to talk.

Harry sat down in one of the chairs, Draco took the other. He set his napkin on his lap and scooched his chair in. “It’s nice,” he said.

“I hope so,” Harry replied. “I guess it all comes down to the food, though, so we’ll see.”

Which Draco disagreed with entirely—the least important part of the restaurant was the food, which really got its taste from how good of a time you’d been having from the beginning—but he wasn’t about to say so. He just made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and looked at the menu. It looked like pretty standard French food. He leafed through it, looking for something with mushrooms.

“Should I order us a bottle of wine?” Harry asked.

Draco looked at him sharply. Harry wasn’t looking up—his eyes were already halfway through the wine list, it looked like he was on the reds. He probably just wanted wine. Right? But it was Draco’s fault if he drank alcohol. If he did something while he drank. It wasn’t as if Harry could be expected to decline his advances if he did do something, and Draco didn’t think he would but he had barely drunk over the past few years so he didn’t really know but Marcus had always told him that alcohol made him slutty, and maybe saying that he wanted a drink was enough to make Harry know that he wanted more, but maybe not, and Harry clearly _wanted_ a bottle of wine, so maybe he wanted Draco to just be willing—and now Harry was looking at him strange because he hadn’t answered. Right.

Harry wanted to get a bottle of wine.

“Yeah, sure,” Draco said, trying to keep his voice light, trying not to look at Harry in case his eyes would betray something in him.

“Red or white?”

“Red,” Draco decided, because if he was going to drink and…do something, at least he would get a nice drink out of it if nothing else. He wondered whether Harry had any taste—he did have money, sure, but that didn’t account for much.

The waitress came over. “Hi, I’m Maria. I’ll be serving you this evening,” she said.

Draco glanced at her.

Harry smiled. “Hello, Maria. Can we get a bottle of wine?”

“What would you like, sir?” Maria asked, and her calling Harry sir was just a bit too funny. Draco schooled his expression so as not to laugh.

“Er…” Harry bit his lip, then closed the wine menu. “What would you suggest?”

So he didn’t have taste, then. At least he wasn’t afraid to admit it.

Maria smiled. “The Malbec is my favorite. Very rich. If you’re looking for something a bit sweeter, though, maybe the Zinfandel?”

Draco nearly snorted. Zinfandel. Right. Harry, however, looked at a loss. 

“We’ll have the Malbec,” Draco said, and Harry looked at him.

Had that been wrong? Should he not have done that? But Harry was smiling, so it must’ve been right. Although maybe Harry was just happy because he’d chosen the one with a higher alcohol content, if he wanted to…but that didn’t seem likely, as he didn’t seem to even know what a Malbec or a Zinfandel was, and Maria hadn’t said.

“Wonderful,” Maria said. “I’ll be back with that shortly.”

Harry offered her a smile as she left. “You know your wines,” he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow and said, “You don’t,” before he could stop himself. Then he winced. Why had he said that?

Harry just laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “I always look awfully stupid when I try to order them. They say things like oaky or dry and I never really know what that means. They all taste sort of the same to me.”

“You should get less expensive ones, then,” Draco said wryly.

“Well, you ordered,” Harry protested. “Besides, I don’t like the looks the waiters give me when I order the ones that aren’t nice. Like I’ve killed their cat.”

Draco chuckled. “They’re guilting you, Harry.”

“Yeah, well, I guess they’re doing it well,” Harry said with a shrug. “You know what you’re going to order?”

“I was thinking the mushrooms,” Draco said, “Though if you have a better idea I’m all ears.” There. That was nice and decisive—like he was pretty sure Harry wanted—while still leaving room for Harry to tell him otherwise if Draco had guessed wrong. “You?”

“Mushrooms sounds good. I’ll probably get a steak.”

If he ordered it well-done, Draco might have to leave the restaurant.

The waitress was back with their wine. She showed Draco the label, and when he nodded, she poured a bit in his glass.

He swished it around and took a sip. “Yes, that’ll do fine,” he said, and she filled his glass and Harry’s.

This would be fine. He just had to drink slowly and hope Harry took the hint. Except he didn’t, because they ordered their food and chatted a bit and Draco took tiny sips of the wine to make it look like he was drinking and finally Harry commented on it.

“You know, you can drink more than one glass,” he said. “I ordered it for both of us.”

Ah. So Harry had noticed what he was doing. And he wasn’t pleased.

Draco cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said, because that sounded like the appropriate response to what Harry had said, and then took a larger drink of his wine.

Harry smiled, satisfied.

Shit.

“So, how are the mushrooms?” Harry asked.

“They’re pretty good. You were right,” Draco admitted, “This restaurant is better than its name suggested. How is your steak?” Draco could only thank god he’d ordered it medium-rare.

“I’ve had better, but it’s up there,” Harry replied, taking another bite.

Draco took another drink. His glass was empty. Harry filled it with a smile.

Why had Draco tried to look good? There had been several _hideous_ outfits in that attic. He could have chosen any of those. But now…well, he’d done this to himself. Whatever was coming was coming, and he might as well get tipsy enough to not mind.

He drank this glass quicker throughout their conversation. The wine hit him quickly; he hadn’t drunk a lot recently, after all, and hadn’t accounted for how skinny he’d gotten, and the room had taken on a tilt before he’d realized it.

The restaurant began shrinking with every sip he took, until everything Harry said sort of sounded like yelling because it was loud in here, very loud. Harry was smiling, though. He had a nice smile. Maybe Draco wouldn’t mind sleeping with him.

“You’re nicer than I thought,” Draco said, and tried hard not to slur his words.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

Draco waved a hand somewhere. “You don’t sound so good in your writing. I mean, you’re good at writing. But you don’t sound _good._ But you’re nice now, which I didn’t know if you would be.” He was vaguely aware that his words sounded insulting if they made sense at all, but he couldn’t really fix them and they were coming out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I did save the world,” Harry said. “I’d like to think that counts for something.”

Draco laughed. “Yes, of course you would. But people forget good things quickly. Bad things stick easier.”

“Hermione thinks my writing is cruel,” Harry sighed. “And I guess maybe she’s right. But I try to only go for bad people. People who have it coming.”

“Like me?” Draco said, even though he really didn’t mean to, but he was a bit drunk and it was hard to keep the words from tripping from his mouth.

The words sat there for a moment. They both stared at them, sitting in the air.

“No,” Harry said quietly. “You didn’t have it coming. And I shouldn’t have tried to…” he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“You already apologized,” Draco said quickly. “You don’t need to again. I don’t know why I said that.”

Harry shrugged. “I probably should apologize again. It was a dick move. More wine?”

Which Draco should have said no to, really, because the room was already tilted, but Harry wanted him to drink more, and he’d brough this on himself. He had it coming. So he nodded. Harry poured. Draco drank.

By the time they left the restaurant, Draco was leaning on Harry and it was dark out.

“Can we…” he hesitated, then pushed on. “Can we walk back?” He would definitely throw up if they apparated now. And he didn’t want to feel Marcus’s hands on him, not now, when Harry’s were sure to come soon. And this way, he could put some time between himself and what was coming. Time to acclimate himself to the idea.

It wasn’t too difficult an idea to acclimate himself to. Harry was fit, after all. And Draco was pretty sure Harry would be gentle, although he’d thought the same of Marcus, so maybe…

Harry nodded quickly. “Sounds good. Some fresh air might do you good,” he said, and Draco was suddenly aware of how wobbly he was on his feet. He probably should have drunk less, and Harry had noticed.

But wasn’t that what Harry had wanted?

He clung to Harry’s arm as they walked down the street. “So why…writer?” he asked.

Harry chuckled. “I was going to be an auror. Obviously. Everyone thought I would be. But it was too hard, y’know? I wanted to…wanted to be more than I had been in the war. I couldn’t keep doing that. I considered being a healer, for a while, but Hermione had already started and it seemed…hard. And I’ve always liked reading. Novels and stuff. So I was going to do that, maybe, and in the meantime write some stuff for the Prophet on the side.”

“Are you?” Draco asked, curiously. “Writing a novel.”

Harry shook his head. “No,” he said. “I…I tried, but…I couldn’t write the main characters. Everything I tried to write, I couldn’t make the heroes say yes to whatever they were being asked to do. They seemed better off just living normal lives. Is that stupid? That’s stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Draco said. “Saying yes must’ve been hard. To the war n’stuff. You didn’t want to do it again.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I ever said yes. Not that I wasn’t willing to do it, but…I was a kid. And there were all these adults around me saying _I_ was the answer, which was weird because there were a whole lot of people around me who were stronger and smarter. I obviously don’t regret doing it, because it all worked and if I hadn’t…I don’t know what would’ve happened. Maybe Voldemort would be dead. Maybe he wouldn’t. Anyways…I wouldn’t want anyone else to have to. Not even if that person is fake.”

That was sort of sweet, really. Harry was sweet. “That makes sense,” Draco said.

“Yeah, except now I don’t know what I’m doing,” Harry said. “Writing nasty articles for the Prophet. All I need is a quick quotes quill and I’m on my way.”

“You’re not Rita Skeeter,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. Was that what Harry thought? Because yeah, his writing wasn’t nice, but it wasn’t morally _wrong._ “You don’t lie.”

Harry seemed to be mulling that one over. “Sometimes the truth hurts more,” Harry said finally. “And I don’t think I set out to hurt people. I hope I didn’t.”

“Why don’t you quit?” Draco asked.

“Don’t have much else to do. And I don’t want to just…sit around, you know? Live out the rest of my life in my own shadow. I’ve got to do something. And I like writing. Just whenever I do it, I get into this vindictive space.”

“Is it really the writing?” Draco asked.

“What?” Harry replied.

“Maybe you’re just…vindictive,” Draco finished lamely, and god, that didn’t sound nice, but words were so hard and he had to concentrate enough on walking but if he didn’t _watch his words_ then Harry _definitely_ wouldn’t be gentle.

Harry snorted. “Maybe. I hope not.”

“You have plenty to be vindictive about,” Draco shrugged. “I’d be, if I were you. It’s a fair response to this fucked-up world that we live in.”

Harry sighed. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. But I don’t want that to be my response, even if it is fair.” He took a deep breath. “It’s whatever, though. Er…when does Quidditch start back up?”

It was a clear change of topic, but if Harry didn’t want to talk about himself, then Draco wouldn’t make him. “In a month or so,” Draco said. “The off-season is short, which is nice.”

“You like playing?”

“Yeah, it’s nice. I mean, you know. The wind. The speed. It’s exhausting, though, sometimes.”

“It must be nice to get a break,” Harry hummed.

And maybe if he was soberer, he could have responded noncommittally or something, but his brain-to-mouth connection was quite weak at the moment. “Not really,” he said instead, frowning. Vacation just meant spending all the time at home. And Marcus liked it in the beginning, then got tired of him hanging around.

“Right,” Harry said. “Shit. Sorry.”

Draco shrugged. “S’fine.” But the conversation had ground to an unpleasant halt, and they spent the rest of the walk back in silence. The night air was cold, and did give Draco a bit of a chance to sober up, at least somewhat. 

It also gave Draco ample time to think about what would happen back at Grimmauld Place. What did Harry want? Everything? Or just a blowjob, maybe? That would be nice, but Draco didn’t want to get his hopes up. After all, if he wanted a blowjob, he probably would want Draco sober, so he could do it well. No, he probably just wanted a warm body to…bile rose in Draco’s throat at the thought, but he shoved it back down. Really, he was overreacting. He’d been fucked by worst people.

All of Marcus’s business partners, for one.

He was lost in those thoughts when he looked up and saw that they were back at Harry’s house. “Ah. We’re here,” he said, and hoped the dread wasn’t too obvious in his voice.

When they got in the house, Harry took his shoes off and went into the living room, settling himself down on the couch. Draco followed suit, perching himself on the edge of the couch. Preparing himself. When would Harry just come out and say it?

Harry yawned. “It’s late,” he said. “I’ll be going to bed soon, I think.”

There it was.

“M’kay,” Draco replied, because he really wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to say and even though the fresh air _had_ helped, the living room was sort of spinning.

Harry stood up with another yawn. “Now, actually, it seems,” he laughed.

Draco stood up too, and followed him as he went upstairs. It wasn’t until they’d gotten to Harry’s door that Harry turned around.

“Oh, you don’t know where your room is, do you? I guess you only saw it this morning. Er, it’s this way.”

What? He tried to hide his confusion.

Clearly he didn’t do it very well, because Harry narrowed his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“I—“ Draco began, but then cut himself off, because on the off chance that Harry _hadn’t_ been intending to do what Draco had thought he’d been intending to do the whole night, he didn’t want to insult him. Or give him any ideas. “Er, nothing. Sorry.”

“Clearly there’s something, Draco. Do you want to come in?” Harry said, and gestured to his bedroom.

Shit. Draco’s head was too filled with the low buzz of alcohol for him to think. Was Harry going to fuck him or wasn’t he, he wanted to ask, but he knew that Harry wouldn’t like that either way. He wanted him drunk. And in his room. Which pointed to the former. But he had been confused when Draco had followed him, which pointed to the latter. His head couldn’t handle this right now.

“Er, no?”

Harry’s brow furrowed at that.

“Yes,” Draco tried again.

But that wasn’t the right answer either, because Harry just looked more confused.

“Draco, can you just tell me what’s going on? I’m not a mind reader!” Harry said. His voice was loud—angry, Draco’s brain supplied, he was angry, which meant yes, he did—or no, he didn’t—but he’d told Draco to tell him, so Draco had to tell him, and Harry was already angry so if he got angreier then at least he’d already be angry and Draco’s head really couldn’t handle this so he’d just have to say it.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” he said, and he’d meant it to come out as loud, to match Harry’s tone, but it had come out weak and scared instead, and he could’ve cursed himself.

And even worse, from the way Harry’s eyebrows shot up and his mouth fell open, he hadn’t even considered the idea. Or maybe that was better. Draco didn’t know. Harry was red. Was he mad? Draco was too drunk for this, way to drink.

“Why—why would you think that?” Harry choked out. “I mean, no! No.”

Draco could feel his ears turn red with embarrassment. “You kept giving me wine,” he said, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “And you—you—“ _You think I’m attractive,_ he was going to say, but then it occurred to him that maybe he’d misread that, too, and Harry wasn’t attracted to him at all, because why would he be? So he shut us mouth. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably, after a moment, because Harry was still just staring at him.

After what felt like at least another hour of that, Harry cleared his throat. “You don’t need to apologize,” he said, and his voice was quieter, which eased Draco’s breath. “Just…” he ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not going to…I’m not going to ask you to do that, okay? I understand that Marcus might have—might have…“

Harry’s thoughts were coming in bits and pieces, and Draco was too drunk to be able to put them together.

“Okay,” Harry said, after another deep breath and Draco had to repeat _not angry not angry not angry_ in his head to convince himself. “I think this is a conversation that needs to happen when we’re both less drunk, but for now, I—I’m not going to sleep with you, Draco. And I think you should go to bed, okay? I’m going to do the same. Separately.”

Draco got that. “Yeah,” he said, and vaguely knew that his sober, morning self would be kicking himself for saying anything in the first place, but it was a bit late for that now. “Yeah, okay, goodnight,” he said, and practically fled back to his room.

Once he’d shut the door and changed into his pajamas, he sat down in his bed and stared at the ceiling of the four-poster.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit _shit._


	11. the talk

Harry woke up with a massive hangover and dread pooled in his stomach, though he wasn’t sure why. He sat up and his stomach turned from the motion, but there was something in the back of his head besides his headache, some persistent voice saying _oh shit_ over and over again. Had something happened last night?

He rubbed his eyes blearily and tried to piece together what had happened the night before. They’d gone out to dinner. He’d had a bit too much to drink. They’d walked back, because Harry had seen Draco’s terrified face after they’d side-alonged there and he didn’t want to see it again. And then they’d gotten back and…

“Oh, shit,” he said out loud, matching the voice in his head perfectly.

 _Are you going to fuck me or not?_ Draco had asked, his voice quiet and scared, and then Harry had mumbled something like a fucking idiot and hidden in his room.

 _Are you going to fuck me or not._ Not do you want to fuck me. Are you going to. As if Draco didn’t think he had a say in the matter.

Because of course he didn’t think he had a say in the matter. Merlin, why did Harry never listen to Hermione?

“You’re really in deep now, darling,” Karen called from the opposite wall.

“Talk quieter!” he groaned, and threw a pillow at her.

“You really should drink less. You were raving mad last night. Kept asking me to remind you to talk to your boy toy in the morning.”

“He’s not my boy toy,” Harry growled, because yes, he did have to talk to Draco, didn’t he? Although how he was going to give the guy a crash course on consent when he’d never had the Talk himself—he took a moment to shudder at the image of Vernon Dursley giving him the _Talk_ —he had no idea. “But yes, I am really in deep now, Karen, I’m absolutely fucked.”

“Language,” Karen reprimanded. “What happened? He doesn’t love you back? Or he _does_ love you back? I don’t know which would be better! Oooh, this is all so exciting.”

“My life is not a television show,” Harry grumbled, hoisting himself out of bed with a Herculean effort and pulling on a pair of pants. “And this is serious. I really fucked up.”

 _Are you going to fuck me or not?_ Draco’s question kept repeating in the back of his head, his voice joining the _oh, shit,_ that still hadn’t stopped, and Harry put his head in his hands for a moment. Okay, no problem. Just have coffee and then go beat the everloving shit out of Marcus Flint. That was fine. This was fine.

He pulled on a tee-shirt. “Wish me luck, Karen,” he mumbled and left the room.

He could just vaguely here Karen call “You’re going to need it!” as the door shut behind him. And Merlin, if that wasn’t the truth. Because first of all, when he went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, Draco was already there, making eggs.

Why Harry hadn’t realized he’d be up this early today, when he’d been up for hours when Harry awoke yesterday, he had no idea. Chalk it up to his stupidity. He could chalk a lot of stuff up to his stupidity, actually. Such as the look Draco gave him when he cleared his throat so that Draco would know he was in the room with him.

Shame was plastered all over Draco’s face, as if _he_ had been the one to make _Harry_ think he was going to assault him.

“I’m making eggs,” Draco said, and then frowned. “I suppose that’s obvious. Would you like some? They’re nearly done.”

“Sure, thank you,” Harry said, trying to push through the awkwardness. “Would you…like some coffee?” he offered.

Draco tilted his head to the other side of the kitchen. “There’s some over there. It might be lukewarm, but you can use a warming charm on it and it should be fine.”

Harry mumbled another thanks and went to go pour himself a cup of coffee. When he’d finished and turned around, Draco was holding two plates out and his brow was furrowed as if he was trying to decide whether to say something.

Apparently, he decided in favor of it. “Harry, I think I’ve got to apologize for last night. I didn’t mean to imply that you wanted to do anything.” The words tumbled out fast, as if he’d been nervous to say them. Because of course he had, Harry chided himself.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harry sighed, and set his coffee down on the counter. “But I meant what I said last night. We have to have a serious conversation about that. Are you up for that now?” he asked, even though he wasn’t sure he was up for it. But he’d never be up for it, because he was pretty sure whatever Draco was going to say about consent, it wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Or would you like to wait until later?”

Draco was pale and clutching the plates as though his life depended on it, but he muttered, “Now, if that’s alright.”

“Great,” Harry said. “Why don’t we go to the living room, though, that way we can sit and eat.” _And I can drink my coffee,_ he unwillingly thought, though that really, really shouldn’t be the first thing on his mind right now.

Draco nodded, and led the way to the living room. He set the plates on the coffee table and sat on the edge of one of the sofa chairs, cross-legged, looking everywhere but Harry.

Harry sat down across from him and took a deep breath. He really should have thought more about how to have this conversation. He sat back on the couch, then moved forward again. Tried to think through the psychology tricks he’d learned for interviews. Should he mirror Draco’s movements? Then dismissed that thought. He wasn’t trying to get interview information, for Merlin’s sake, he was trying ask if Draco’s husband had ever…well. Nothing for it except to dive in, he supposed. 

“Draco, I’m not going to ask you to sleep with me. Or make you sleep with me,” Harry added, in case it wasn’t clear enough. “That would be entirely inappropriate, not only because of the current imbalance of power between us, but because I have promised to keep you safe. Also, it would inappropriate in any other circumstance as well.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee. After a moment, he said, “You don’t need to do that, you know.”

Harry took a beat. One beat, which was already too many, to steel himself. “Do what?” he asked, trying and desperately, desperately failing to sound nonchalant.

Draco shrugged. “Stop yourself. If…if that’s something you want to do, that is. Have sex.” His expression was careful, but not guarded, which was almost worse. He was being far too casual. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

Harry swallowed. “I do, actually, need to stop myself, because it doesn’t really matter whether you can or not, it matters whether you _want_ to.”

The little laugh Draco let out at that made Harry’s stomach clench.

“I’m not joking, Draco,” Harry said before the blonde could say anything that Harry was sure would be enormously wrong, “Consent is important.”

Draco clenched his hands over his knees, and if Harry looked away he could ignore the slight strain in his eyes. He tried not to look away.

“I obviously know consent is important. I’m not fourteen. I’m saying I’ve consented. Whatever you want to do, it’s fine,” Draco said slowly, as if he were speaking to a toddler.

Harry could have torn his hair out. He was really and truly out of his depth here. “But that’s not—that’s not consent. There’s a difference between being fine and wanting it.”

“So you want me to want it?” Draco said, and Harry almost said _yes,_ but the word died on his lips when Draco said, “I can do that.”

“What?” Harry said.

“If you want me to ask for it, or something. I can do that. It’s not a problem,” Draco said, almost tonelessly, which was such a stark difference from the scared, timid _are you going to fuck me or not_ that had been echoing through Harry’s head all morning that he had to take a minute to reconcile the two.

“Merlin, no!” he said, putting what Draco was saying together in his head.

At that, Draco flinched. Straightened. Harry lowered his voice.

“No, Draco, I don’t—what do you think this conversation is?” he broke off. Because he still couldn’t reconcile Draco scared out of his wits at the prospect of sleeping with Harry last night to the cool, expressionless Draco in front of him, couldn’t figure out what had caused the difference.

At this, Draco hesitated. “I…last night you said you wanted to talk. You said you weren’t going to sleep with me because we were drunk. You said we’d talk in the morning. So you want to talk about us having sex.” He looked at Harry, uncertain. As if waiting to hear whether he’d gotten the answer right.

So basically, Harry could not have handled this worse if he had actively tried. And Draco had spent all night preparing for a conversation in which Harry would tell him exactly how he was going to rape him, or something about that level of awful. How had Draco gotten that from what he had said? _What_ had he said? If only last night weren’t so hazy in his brain.

“I didn’t want to _talk_ last night when were were drunk,” Harry said finally, once he was pretty sure where the words had gotten confused. “I meant what I said. I am never going to ask you or tell you or _expect_ you to sleep with me. I wanted to talk to make sure you knew that.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“Oh,” Draco said after a while. “I see.”

“Does that…does that make sense?” Harry asked uncertainly, because he didn’t want Draco to somehow manage to keep the idea in his head that Harry was going to rape him.

“Yes,” Draco said, and then frowned. “Sorry.”

“You really, really don’t need to apologize,” Harry replied. “It’s not your fault.”

That only deepened Draco’s frown. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were twisted and his hands were clenches around his mug and Harry wished for the thousandth time that he was a mind-reader. Although, he thought unpleasantly, whatever he would read in Draco’s mind probably wouldn’t be fun.

“Draco?” Harry asked after a moment. “Is something wrong?”

Draco looked up at Harry, startled, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. “All’s fine,” he said. Then, after a sip of coffee, said, “I think you and my husband would disagree on the finer points of consent.”

 _I agree,_ Harry’s mind supplied, but he quickly swatted the thought away. _Listen,_ Hermione had said. “How do you mean?” Harry asked carefully.

Draco shrugged. Furrowed his brow. Pushed his eggs around his plate. “You said it matters whether I want to. But if I’m not in the mood and Marcus is, then I can’t exactly expect him to just ignore his needs, can I? I’m—was—am his husband. That would be selfish.” 

Harry grimaced. “No. That’s not selfish. You shouldn’t have to have sex when you don’t want it. And if he needs to get off that desperately, he can do it himself.”

“That would hardly be reasonable,” Draco countered, but he seemed unsure. “I hardly ever want it. But he married me with certain expectations. And I have to show him…to show him I love him.” But he frowned and looked to the side, as if he weren’t entirely convinced.

“No,” Harry said. He had to be patient. He had to make Draco see. “He shouldn’t expect you to have sex when you don’t want it.”

“I…” Draco broke off. Bit his lip. “I mean, I know he sometimes crossed a line. I’m not an idiot. I know that you’re not supposed to…” He fidgeted.

“Supposed to what?” Harry asked, trying to sound gentle even though he really, really wanted to punch the lights out of Flint, because if having sex when Draco didn’t want it was _fine,_ he really, really hated to think what crossing a line meant.

Draco did a shaky little jerk of his head. Looked at his toes. Took a breath. “It’s not really…but other than that, I…” Harry could see the gears turning in his brain, could see him trying to piece things together that he’d no doubt been gaslit out of understanding. “I’m not going to sit here and defend him, but I can’t pretend that I didn’t say yes,” he settled on shortly.

“Draco, I don’t know what Flint said, but a yes induced by coercion, or…or fear, isn’t really a yes at all.”

“You’re…that’s not right. I’m his husband, I’m supposed to, you know. It’d be selfish to not.”

“That’s not selfish, Draco,” Harry said softly. “The basic assumption should not be that you should always be ready to have sex, or…or do it if other people want you to, or tell you to, or make you. Sex is supposed to be between two people. Not one person…inflicting it on the other.”

Draco made a distressed sound that hit Harry like a blow to the stomach.

“But how was he supposed to know? That I didn’t…or I wasn’t…”

In his mind’s eye, Harry saw Flint. His grin at Draco’s _nice ass._ His fists. Draco, waking up sweating and afraid from nightmares. “He knew, Draco.”

At this, Draco’s face tightened. He looked away from Harry, and Harry looked away as well, trying to give him a chance to collect himself. He turned to his eggs, instead. He wasn’t hungry, not at all, not when images of Flint, twice Draco’s size, were swimming through Harry’s head, not when he was still stuck on what _crossing a line_ was, but there was too much tension and he didn’t want it to look like he was avoiding looking at Draco. Which, to be fair, was exactly what he was doing, but he didn’t have to look it.

So he picked at his eggs for a while, then looked at the window, then sipped his coffee. When he discovered it cold, he cast a quick warming charm on it, and then, for good measure, on Draco’s as well. Because oh, right, he didn’t have a wand. Because Flint had _taken it._

He had to go back and get Draco’s stuff, somehow, at some point.

Draco’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“This has been great, thanks, I’m going to go to the, somewhere else. I’ll see you later, then.” Harry looked up swiftly, but Draco had already taken both their empty plates and mugs to the kitchen.

It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation. Definitely worse for Draco than it was for him. He probably just needed some time to…well, Harry didn’t know, but he just couldn’t really handle continuing that conversation. And it didn’t seem like Draco could either.

And besides, he had to do something. And the longer he waited, the worse the problem became. He scribbled a note to Draco: _Gone out to get some stuff, I’ll be back later,_ and left it on the table in case Draco wondered where he had gone.

Draco didn’t need to know exactly what stuff he was getting.

Minutes later, he was on the doorstep of Draco’s house. The plan was to sneak in, grab Draco’s stuff, _accio_ his wand, if he could, and get out.

Unfortunately, before he could even go inside, the door swung open.

Flint stood in front of him, arms crossed.

“Potter,” Flint said.

“Hello, Flint,” Harry said, trying to shove down the rage that was boiling in his chest. “I’ve come for Draco’s things.”

“So you’re the one who’s kidnapped my husband, then,” Flint growled.

Harry scoffed. “Yeah, right. You know, Flint, I know you’ve got a brain, and you know I’ve got one as well, so why don’t you just step aside and let me get what I’ve come for, so I never have to see your face again.” He tried to move around Flint, but Flint stepped in front of him again.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. You can’t just kidnap my husband and rob me.”

“I can do whatever the hell I like, actually,” Harry said, his voice rising. “And I haven’t kidnapped your husband. And I’m not robbing you. So move aside.”

“No, you can’t. I’m a member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—“

And wasn’t that just the icing on the cake. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“Yeah,” Harry said, and could hear himself yelling but wasn’t inclined to try and stop anymore, “And I’m Harry Potter. So unless you’ve got an Order of Merlin, First Class hidden somewhere up your arse, I’m pretty sure I outrank whatever muscle work you’ve been hired to do by the Ministry of Magic! So why don’t you get the fuck out of my way and maybe, maybe, I won’t have you arrested, your name destroyed by the Prophet, and all your assets liquidated.” His breath was heaving but he couldn’t do anything about it and his fists were clenched and he was itching for his wand.

Flint moved to the side.

“And get me Draco’s wand,” Harry said through gritted teeth as he walked past. “Now.”

He stormed to their bedroom looked around for the closet. Upon finding it, he wrenched it open and took everything that looked like Draco’s, everything he’d seen Draco wear, and put it in the trunk he’d brought with him. Draco’s broom lay beside the closet. He took that too.

Flint cleared his throat from the doorway. Harry spun around, hand going to his wand before he realized it. Flint was holding his wand as well, though not out at Harry, just clutched in his fingers as he leaned against the doorframe.

A lazy smile flitted across his face. “So what’d he do for you?”

“Whatever you’re about to say, bite it, Flint,” Harry warned.

“Just his mouth? Or has he bent over yet? Let you do it rough? He’s so _easy,_ just wants _so badly_ to be good—“

“Shut the fuck up, Flint,” Harry said, and leveled his wand at him.

Flint smirked. “Just bringing you the wand,” he said, and tossed it to Harry, who caught it.

His own wand shook in his hand. _You need to mean it, Potter—need to really want to cause pain,_ Bellatrix had said all those years ago _—_ and very nearly, he did, because _crucio_ was on his tongue and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself, but at the last moment he pocketed his wand.

“I’m going to eviscerate you, Flint,” he said, and knelt down to lock up the trunk. “I don’t know how. Maybe I’ll do it in the papers. Get you for something that the public won’t forgive. I pretty much own the Prophet, at this point, and besides, public opinion tends to want to take the side of Harry Potter. Or it’ll won’t be so public. Maybe I’ll just take away every single thing you’ve ever needed or wanted—because I know you’re not capable of love, Flint, I’m not an idiot, but I’m sure you like money, or safety, or _something_ —either way, whatever sad little life you’ve built for yourself, it’s all over. You probably know this,” he said, and stood up, gripping the trunk in one hand. “But I’ve spent a large part of my life gaining the respect and adoration of the world _you_ just live in. I’ve never really cashed in those credits, so to speak. It might be just about time, don’t you think?”

That was a promise he intended to keep.


	12. flying

Draco was reading again. He was curled up in the chair he’d sat in the previous day next to the firepit. The book was good, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He couldn’t help but circle back around every minute to the conversation he and Harry had had earlier.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known. Or maybe it was. It was so hard to think, and he felt so distant from the past five years, sometime, like it was some parallel plane with different rules he didn’t understand anymore.

Harry hadn’t talked to him since their discussion, which was fine, really, because Draco wasn’t sure he would be able to face him. It wasn’t as if he was embarrassed. Or maybe he was. He shook the thought out of his head turned back to his book.

His mind drifted back and forth from it anyways for the next hour, unpleasantly and unchangeably capricious. About when he was ready to put down the book and slam his head into a wall, a knock sounded from the doorway. A head of curls, followed by Harry’s face, poked through the doorway.

“You busy?” he asked.

“Yes, terribly so. Once I’ve finished perfecting my new antidote to the cure for living death, I’ll still have my novel to write. So.”

Harry grinned and sat across from him. “Stupid question, stupid answer, yeah?”

“I thought it was a rather clever answer,” Draco said with a smirk. “But certainly the question was stupid. Do you need something?” He winced. “That came out harsher than I meant it to. Sorry.”

“No worries,” Harry waved him off. “I got something for you, actually.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. That couldn’t be good. “What would that be?”

Harry pulled a wand from his back pocket, leaned across the firepit and passed it to Draco. “It’s a wand. Your wand.”

Draco turned it over in his hand. “So it is,” he said, and tucked it in his pocket. His wand. He’d had it before, of course, intermittently, when Marcus knew he needed it for quidditch matches or a night out. It still felt nice to have it in his hand. But he couldn’t feel happy about it; there was something in the back of his head, nagging him.

Not having it reminded him of 7th year, sometimes. Of Voldemort in his house, screaming about how they’d summoned him and then lost Potter, _crucio_ ing anyone his head.

His wand, though. It finally dawned on him. “You went to my house.”

“Yeah. It seemed like the necessary thing,” Harry said.

“No, yeah, that makes sense.” Draco frowned. He probably shouldn’t say it. Harry had done something nice, and he should be grateful. But he couldn’t help himself. “You, er. You didn’t talk to me about it first.” His voice came out quiet and apologetic, which he hated.

Harry winced. “I’m sorry. I should have. I just had to do something, and I didn’t want to make you anxious, or…”

Draco nodded. That was fine. But the image of Harry talking to Marcus made him sick to his stomach, even though they’d spoken before. “That makes sense. You don’t need to apologize, but. Er. Did you see Marcus, then?”

Harry’s face darkened, which was all the response Draco really needed, but he offered a quiet “Yes,” anyways.

“And he just gave you my wand?” That hardly seemed likely. Marcus didn’t like to lose. Didn’t like things being taken from him. Or people, for that matter.

“He took a bit of convincing.” Draco didn’t want to think about what that ‘convincing’ had looked like. “But I got some of your stuff, too. Clothes. And your broom.”

Draco’s heart quickened. “My broom?” he repeated. All else, even Marcus, left his brain.

Harry tilted his head to the door and offered a hesitant smile. “Yeah. It’s in the living room. It’s _really_ nice. Puts my old firebolt to shame.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “You still fly a _firebolt_?” He knew Harry was rich. And liked flying. Why the hell would he stay on a crusty old thing like that?

“Yeah. To be honest, I’ve never flown anything faster,” Harry said with a shrug. “Never gotten around to it.”

Draco jumped up, careful to place his book down on the seat he’d left, and looked at Harry with an expression he could only assume was wild. Because really. The fastest Harry had gone was a _firebolt?_ “No way,” Draco said. “Absolutely no way. We’re going right now. I’m not letting you spend another minute of your life with the fastest broom you’ve ever ridden being a firebolt.”

Harry grinned. “What, are we going to go buy me a broom?”

“No,” Draco said, and rolled his eyes. “You’ll ride mine.”

Harry’s grin widened, if that was even possible. “You’d let me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Draco said easily—which should have been a shock, because he’d never let anyone before, but he wasn’t worried about Harry. It didn’t feel wrong. “Let’s go.” He strode out of the room. Harry followed behind him.

It was there, alright—his broom. He knew it was a little strange, the reverence he had for it, but flying was everything. It was his power, his strength. In the air he was free and no one could hurt him. No one had ever been able to.

He picked it up, felt its handle. Made sure it was okay, which it was. Then he flashed a grin at Harry and went out the backdoor.

“Now, Harry,” he joked once they were both outside. “I know you’re a bit new to flying. You don’t need to be scared, okay? It’s easy-peasy.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at Draco. “I beat you in every match at Hogwarts.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And I’m sure you’d beat me now, if you weren’t so scared of my super-speedy broomstick!”

“Give it to me,” Harry said, and stuk his hand out.

Draco smirked. “As you wish,” he said, and passed it to Harry.

Harry swung a leg over the broom and barely had time to let out an undignified yelp as it shot off into the sky. Draco laughed as Harry hurtled through the sky, gripping the broom as if his life depended on it.

“Have you forgotten how to fly?” he called.

Harry’s voice was barely audible, because he had gone so high in the sky so quickly. “No! It’s—just—really—fast!”

“Come down, then!” Draco shouted.

“No!” Harry said quickly, and attempted a turn that ended up just making him go higher.

“The muggles are going to see you!”

“Protective charms!” Harry called, clearly trying to be nonchalant and failing epically as the broom flipped him upside-down. “The muggles can’t see!”

“Okay, clearly you can’t handle yourself on that broom, so come down before you crash it,” Draco shouted, eyeing the tall tree in Harry’s yard that he was inching ever closer to by the minute.

Harry hurtled to the ground at breakneck speed, only managing to pull up at the last second.

“Merlin, Harry,” Draco laughed. “If Oliver Wood could see you now.”

Harry glared petulantly. “I won us the house cup, you know.”

“I won England the Quidditch World Cup. That fails to impress me by about ten leagues. Give me the broom,” Draco said.

Harry handed him his broom back, and Draco hopped on before waving to Harry.

“Get on.”

Harry frowned. “With you?”

“Unless you don’t want to. But this way you can actually enjoy the ride instead of fearing for your life,” Draco said, though, truth be told, he wasn’t sure about this either. He’d offered out rides on his broom before, for charity and for enthusiastic fans, but those were kids. And also not Harry Potter.

Harry hopped on behind him.

“Hold on,” Draco said, and Harry wrapped his hands around Draco’s waist. Draco turned around and raised an eyebrow. “To the broom, Harry. This isn’t _Titanic._ ”

“You’ve seen _Titanic_?” Harry said, and took his hands off of Draco’s waist.

“Of course I’ve seen _Titanic._ I don’t live under a rock.”

Harry shrugged.

Draco took the opportunity to kick off of the ground. The broom shot into the air, and Draco grinned. Nothing like flying. The wind blew through his hair and stung on his cheeks. He cut a sharp turn around the tree Harry had nearly flown into earlier. He’d missed this. This was easy, this was _good._ This was what life was _meant_ to be like.

“Hey! Warn a guy!” Harry called from behind him.

“Sorry,” Draco said. “Got caught up. How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Harry said. “I won’t lie, Draco, you’re not bad at this.”

Draco scoffed and did a quick spin in the air. “Yes, I suppose I’m alright,” he said sarcastically, as harry shouted behind him.

He whipped his head around. Harry was sticking his arms out, laughing. “Merlin, this really is _Titanic,_ ” Draco grumbled. “Put your hands back on the broom, I will _not_ be responsible for the savior of the wizarding world falling to his death.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“And don’t be so cocky, Harry, remember I heard you screaming like a four-year-old who’s just hopped on his first toy broom two minutes ago.”

Harry scowled, but Draco just grinned. Nothing could ruin this.

The wind whistled in his ears as he leaned forward and cut sharply downward. They landed on the ground lightly, and Draco slid off of the broom. “There you go. Now you’ve flown as quickly as pretty much anyone in this world can,” he said.

Harry groaned. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Probably not.” Draco shot Harry a sly grin over his shoulder as he went back inside.

The high from flying had, predictably, worn off by the time dinner came around. He could only hope this one would be better than the previous night, he thought, as he walked downstairs to see Harry cooking.

“I can—“ he began, but at the look Harry’s face quickly assumed, Draco withdrew whatever he was about to offer and settled himself on the couch. He picked at the couch cushion for a while without realizing what he was doing, and then sat on his hands once he came to his senses. No reason to screw up Harry’s stuff.

He’d spent the past hour and a half unpacking, but the real thrill had been that he’d got to do it with his _wand._ And quickly found out he was pretty terrible at household chores once spellwork was involved. He’d nearly incinerated his favorite shirt while trying to hang it in the wardrobe. He’d decided to do the rest by hand, which was certainly more effective, but had made him feel sort of useless and resulted in his current mood.

Harry entered soon enough, breaking Draco off mid-thought with two plates of pasta. He offered a self-conscious smile.

“Sorry. I only know pasta,” he said.

Draco shrugged. It was still food. “It’s good. Thanks,” he said, but couldn’t bring himself to say more than monosyllabic words. There was something in his stomach that felt like hunger but it wasn’t hunger—anger? Loneliness? Draco was too tired to sort out what; it was all he could do to not take it out on Harry. Which he would not do, under any circumstances, because Harry was being the nicest guy ever and putting up with him and stood up to Marcus for him and the last thing he needed to do was inconvenience him or piss him off.

He hadn’t gotten into a mood like this in a while. Harry was looking at him silently.

“You okay?” he said finally, and something about the concern in his voice made Draco want to _run,_ which didn’t make sense because it was all kindness but he felt his fingers gripping the sides of his plate anyways.

“Yes,” he said, and tried to maintain a steady voice. “Perfectly fine.”

Harry raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

Draco knew he should say something, but he wasn’t really in the mood. His brain intermittently showed him pictures of Harry talking to Marcus earlier today, of Marcus saying whatever he _definitely_ said about Draco to Harry, but mostly, really, a stiff irritation was humming through him that left no room for anything else, that he desperately wished he could get rid of.

“You don’t seem fine.”

“What incredible observational skills you have!” Draco snapped, then felt queasy guilt build up in his stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. The rage was still settled in the pit of his stomach, but his outburst had brought him enough to his senses to shove it down further for at least a minute or two.

“You don’t need to—“ Harry began, but Draco was tired of that.

“Sometimes I do,” he said. “There was no reason for me to say that. You didn’t provoke me or invite it. So, I’m sorry. Sue me. Believe it or not—and I hope, considering our history, that you can believe it—I was an asshole even before Marcus got to me.” Or maybe he couldn’t shove it down for a minute or two.

Harry frowned. “That’s not what I…” he set down his plate. “I get plenty angry too. For no reason at all. My mind-healer says it’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. From the war. Maybe it’s the same with you.”

Draco turned that over in his mind for a moment. “That doesn’t mean you should just have to sit there and take it,” he said, because he _knew_ that would get to Harry. He knew it, after the past two days.

“You’re right. No one should,” Harry sighed. “But I’m not upset. I get it.”

Draco picked at the couch cushion a little more, trying to figure out whether the question would bother Harry. He decided to go for it. “Do you…how do you handle it?” he said. “The Post Trauma thing,” he amended.

“I talk to my mind healer. And I try to recognize when I’m…engaging in destructive behavior. And sometimes, to get myself out of that headspace, I need to be alone.”

Draco nodded, listening. “And that works?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sort of,” Harry said. “It’s not always good. You as well as anyone have seen me get into a spiral. But it helps me draw myself out of it. Or allow other people to draw me out of it.” Harry looked off into the direction of the kitchen, clearly lost in thought. After a minute, he turned to Draco with his unusually piercing gaze. “Would you be interested in that?” he asked. “A mind healer, I mean. For the war or for Flint or for anything else.”

Draco frowned. “I don’t know if talking to someone—“

“Don’t knock it till you try it, really.’

Draco thought about it, though: sitting in someone’s office, telling them about everything. Having them look at him while he said it. “I don’t know,” he responded honestly. ‘I just…don’t know.”

Harry nodded. “That’s fair. You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Or any time soon, if you don’t want to. Just…think about it.”

“I will,” Draco promised.


End file.
